Intersections
by laras-dice
Summary: The story goes back further than Vaughn thought. COMPLETE.
1. 0x0: Prologue

**Title:** Intersections  
**Author:** LarasDice  
**E-mail:** **Website URL:** http: **Feedback: **Absolutely. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome.  
**Distribution: **CM always, otherwise please let me know.  
**Disclaimer: **I understand that Alias is owned by ABC and was created by JJ Abrams and Bad Robot, not Lara. I do not profit from this work beyond personal enjoyment. I do it because I love Alias, and what I do here is meant to help, rather than hinder, the show's market.  
**Summary: **The story goes back further than Vaughn thought  
**Rating: **R to NC-17 and back again for violence, language, sex, etc.  
**Spoilers:** Set post-Double Agent. Anything up until then is fair game. Some things after Double Agent are paralleled when necessary, but I've tried to avoid it.  
**Classification: **S/V epic. Angst. Etc.  
**Author's Notes: **JJ says they can't be interesting together. I disagree. I should note that I use season two Syd and Vaughn — you know, completely different people from season three Syd and Vaughn. Extra special super thanks to Thorne, who signed on as a beta years ago and has since been saddled with two almost-novels and one for-sure. I am so lucky to have found such a great beta, and, more importantly, such a great friend.

— Prologue —

It begins quietly. But then, he thinks, so many important things do.

The scratch of fountain pen over fine linen paper as it signs a declaration of war. The click of a bullet chambered, assassination yet to come. High squeal of the last vacuum tube screwed into ENIAC. Opening chords of "I Want to Hold Your Hand," circa 1963.

The revolution, he knows, comes long before the guns and the bombs. It comes in the little things that we do not notice until we look back and realize that yes, these were the precursors, these are the things we missed.

But today is not for revolution. Today is for her. For all of them.

Schuuuush. Schuuuush. Schuuuush.

His skis skimming over untouched snow, rhythm steady, calves and lungs burning. On through the broad path bordered by thick pine trees, like a vast, grand hallway through the forest. Past old wooden bleachers dripping icicles from the seats. He is making good progress, here, but this is not the part that matters.

The skis are rented; this the first time he has done this in more than a year. The boy at the lodge had been reluctant to hand them over, until he'd said he was on the '68 Olympic team, here to relive the old days. Not quite in the shape he was then, but he'd be fine, just fine, young man.

Schuuuush. Schuuuush. Schuuuush.

A lie, but he'd told it well.

There, up ahead now, the real reason for this trip. He resists the urge to speed up; he has always struggled with self-control. Slow, slow, slow. He must have enough left to make it back.

Finally, there. He glides to a halt.

He had feared the targets would be in disrepair, riddled with bullets and never replaced, but there is one towards the edge of the field that is largely untouched. He must pick through fallen branches to get there, lifting his skis so high he feels like a horse, prancing.

He sucks down more of the frigid air, beginning to regain control of his pulse. Lowers himself into the snow until he is lying flat, chin tilted up just enough to clear the ground, then pulls the rifle from his shoulder.

The rifle is not rented. He has practiced loading it enough at home that this goes smoothly, left to muscle memory, hands gliding over the gun as he considers the target. The snow is cold beneath him, but feels good; the trip here has left him overheated.

If there were any other way to do this, he would have chosen it instead. Such an elaborate, complicated way to go about it, but a firing range would have drawn attention — look at the old man with the rifle — and that was not an option.

This, at least, is quiet. Quiet and effective, given enough time. He considers the target again, the breeze, his own fatigue. Adjusts the gun and pulls the trigger.

A miss, well wide. But he must not be disappointed. This, after all, is why he's here.

New round. Recalculate. Adjust.

He allows himself a tiny smile at the satisfying ping as the next bullet hits the white metal target. Not nearly the center, but he is getting there. And when he does, he will hit it again, and again, and again, until the center bears the lumpy circle of shot after dead-on shot, like a lopsided flower. Then he will leave, and he will feel ready.

Another bullet, another shot. Closer.

There were plenty of snipers on the market he could have hired, all far more practiced, far better shots than him — only a fleeting consideration. Here, however, the whole thing feels absurd: the gun, and the practice, and the task to come.

Absurd, indeed, the thought of it:

Assassin! As if he does not have more important things to do!

But he cannot trust anyone else, not for this job. He began this mess, and he will end it.

It is nearly time.

— End Prologue —


	2. 1x1: Aftermath

— Part I —

Chapter 1.1 — Aftermath

Tuesday, February 17, 2003

He wishes they would just get on with it and tell them they're both in deep shit. But no, that is not the CIA way.

"I want to thank you both for coming in here on such short notice." Kendall, tone official but a bit bored, as if he's just as tired of the long, slow government wind-up as Vaughn. If there weren't so many people in the room, perhaps he'd just lay into them and get it over with. No such luck.

One side of the wide, lacquered conference table is full — Kendall and four other senior agents. Vaughn watches them, looking for a sympathetic face — two graying men, one forty-something woman, and a final man, relatively young compared to the rest of them. All of them in this business too long to give away anything, sympathy or otherwise.

The other side of the table is reserved for the two of them, sitting deliberately with a few feet between them, no need to make things worse. The room itself is bright, cold, small — that institutional style of the rest of the ops center, nestled away in one of the lesser-used wings.

"Agent Bristow," Kendall says. "We had already planned to meet with you to discuss your future within the Agency, now that you're obviously no longer needed on the SD-6 case. However, in light of the incident in Prague, we felt it best to talk to both of you at the same time, if that is acceptable. You have the right to separate hearings, if you choose."

He lets Sydney speak for them. "This is acceptable."

"Well, then, let's begin." Kendall, again. The rest of the line across from them has said nothing, save to introduce themselves at the beginning of the hearing. Three of them sit, passive, hands beneath the table. The youngish man — Agent Wilson, according to the placard in front of him — rests a pen on a blank legal pad.

He'd figured going in that this would be Kendall's show.

"In Prague, you were supposed to retrieve a Rambaldi artifact — a connector. While we were unsure of what devices it was supposed to connect, we had Echelon intercepts that Arvin Sloane was after the artifact, which made it an important piece to get our hands on. You were aware at the outset of the urgency of this mission, correct?"

"Yes," he says. Although addressed to both of them, the question is really for him. He avoids the urge to glance sideways, already knows what he would see: her jaw set, profile tough. Waiting, defensive.

"We suspected the artifact was being stored as part of an unclaimed shipment in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. You approached that warehouse at 2300 hours, correct?"

"Yes."

"And experienced no interference for the first two and one-half minutes of the operation?"

"Yes."

They'd started so well, it felt like a future, felt like it could be the next 10 or 20 years. The way they'd moved silently through the night together, Sydney and Vaughn, advance team, so good, so smooth. Professional and now personal partners —

———

"You're clear on infrared," Weiss announced over their comm channel, knowing the third red dot on his monitor was the solo guard they'd tranqued a minute ago. "Head on in."

The lock came off easily, gone with nothing more complicated than the sort of cutters used by high school custodians on Master Locks with forgotten combinations. Sydney tossed the remnants of the lock on the ground, and pulled open the door. He covered her, gun in hand, as they swept into the empty warehouse.

The crates they sought were supposed to be stored in the east end of the building, and they skimmed across the concrete floor, still nothing on infrared, according to Weiss. The east end was filled with row after row of stacked crates — daunting, but they had the tech for it.

He pulled the sensor from his pants pocket, a plastic box the same size and shape as a common garage door opener, pressed the button on top, and waited for the tiny LCD screen to pinpoint the location of the artifact. Nothing happened. Another try. Still nothing.

"Weiss," he hissed into his comm link. "This thing isn't working."

They waited, as Weiss huffed over to op-tech, asked what the fuck was wrong. Then, "Sorry guys. We can't figure out why it's not working. You're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."

They moved in unison, hauled down one of the crates, ripped off the top. Not their quarry.

"Hey, guys?" Weiss said. "You've got company. I read four, coming up fast."

He glanced at her, one silent moment to decide, and then they both made for the next crate.

"Vaughn, Syd, I just lost infrared. I don't know what happened. They might have a way to mask it. You guys better get out of there."

He grabbed her arm at the same time the front door smacked against the wall, a loud metal clap that reverberated through the warehouse. They backed up against the rough wooden wall formed by the crates, and waited.

They had no choice but to begin firing when the first black-clad man turned the corner into their little crate-tunnel. The intruder staggered backwards and collapsed on the floor, but they'd announced their presence. They rushed out into the open, to the retreating backs of two more black-clad men.

One was familiar. "Sark!" Sydney whispered forcefully.

Vaughn was a few steps closer to them, and took off running as she said it. In a moment, she was in his ear over the comm channel. "I'm going to keep looking for the artifact."

Be careful, he thought, there is still one unaccounted for. But he did not say it. She was better at this than him, after all.

He burst out of the door, took a quick glance, left to right. Sark, on the right, was running around the warehouse, looking for another entrance. Vaughn started after him, feet skidding over the gravel.

The building was long, and it took a while just to run the length of it. But Vaughn turned the corner and Sark was just ahead, his hands wrapped around a loose piece of metal siding, trying to pull it from the building.

He raised his gun. "Freeze!"

Sark glanced up, seemed disgusted by the situation, but he stood, spread his hands wide.

"Sydney, I have Sark. Do you copy?"

No answer.

"Sydney?" His gun hand wavered slightly in front of him, cold dread heavy on his stomach. "Sydney?"

Still silence.

"I suppose Vasiliy got to her," Sark said.

He was about to tell him to shut up when the explosion hit.

He threw himself on the ground, felt the initial wave of heat pass over him. Sark was up and running by the time he rose and looked to the source of the fireball.

East end of the warehouse. _Sydney, oh god, Sydney._

"Sydney! Do you copy?"

"Infrared's back," Weiss said. "What the hell just happened?"

"I don't know." He spun around to start back to the front of the warehouse. "The building just went up. It's — it was where I left Syd. I'm going back to look for her."

"That's a negative, Agent Vaughn." A new voice on the comm link, Kendall. "I understand you were in pursuit of Sark. You are to continue and apprehend him."

"We may have an agent down!"

Kendall did not mention the truth, that they might have an agent dead. "You are to apprehend Mister Sark. Is that understood?"

He did not answer, just dug in, pushed his legs to go a little faster. "Sydney! Sydney! Sydney!"

Still no answer. He might have lost her, right there, right then, after everything, and it seemed plausible, seemed like one of those horrible, cruel twists life takes when things are too good. Faster, faster.

The smoke was thick in the air as he approached the corner, thick in his nose — the smell of her dying, the smell of her dead, maybe — as he swung around, nearly slipped, had to reach out and touch the metal for balance. It scraped his hand but he did not stop, did not care, looked up and there was a glorious sight in front of him, the slim female silhouette doubled over in the grass outside the warehouse as the thing blazed orange and red behind her.

He sprinted across gravel and grass, laid an arm across her back. She was coughing hard from the smoke and there was a deep cut on her arm, but she seemed fine, otherwise.

"God, Syd, are you okay?"

"Yeah." A long, wheezing cough as she gasped for air. "Sark's fourth man — we fought. He hit — I lost my earpiece. I shot him, but one of the crates, there must have been some sort of explosives, or firearms. It caught fire and the whole thing just went — "

He pulled her to standing. "Come on. The local fire department's going to notice this pretty quick."

"Vaughn," she said. "I didn't find the artifact. If it was in there, there's no way it survived the explosion."

"Doesn't matter," he told her. "Doesn't matter."

———

It is still fresh in his mind, the panic, the nearly lost her feeling of that night. He's felt it before, knows he will feel it again. That doesn't make it any easier, especially now.

"You disobeyed a direct order and failed to apprehend Sark," Kendall says. "So not only did we lose the Rambaldi artifact, we also lost an international fugitive."

"Yes, but I thought we had an agent in need of assistance — "

"Your orders were to attempt to apprehend Sark," Kendall says. "If Agent Bristow had been caught in that explosion, we all know it would have been too late for any sort of assistance."

"It was a judgment call." _I was there and you weren't, and maybe she could have survived and been hurt, needed help. Maybe I didn't just panic._ "I didn't have much time to react."

"So," Kendall says, "You'd say your first reaction was to disobey orders and chase after Agent Bristow?"

"I wouldn't say — "

"Forget the question, Agent Vaughn. I'd say your actions speak for themselves." The corners of Kendall's mouth curl into a smug little grin. "Let's discuss your relationship with Agent Bristow."

Oh, shit.

"I don't see how that's anyone's business here." Sydney, her voice strong.

"It is our business when we're sending the two of you on missions together," Kendall says. "Particularly when they fail as spectacularly as this one. It is our business when I hear about your blatantly unprofessional behavior following the raid on SD-6."

Vaughn risks a glance over at her angry profile and wishes it wouldn't make things worse if he reached over and placed his hand over hers. _Easy, Syd. We're definitely going to lose if this turns into a shouting match._

"How far back does the relationship go?" Kendall asks.

"The raid on SD-6," Vaughn says. He wraps one hand around the edge of the table instead, tells himself he cannot white-knuckle it, they will know.

"You expect us to believe that?"

"It's the truth."

"Assuming it is the truth — "

"Wait a minute," Sydney interrupts, even louder than before. "It is the truth. You can't expect us to come in here and answer your questions and have our honesty, our credibility questioned, with absolutely no evidence to the contrary. Why even have a hearing if — "

"Agent Bristow, if you have a problem with my line of questioning, I'd like for you to wait until the question is over." Kendall continues, and it's almost as if she hadn't even spoken. "As I was saying, assuming it is the truth, clearly there must have been something prior to your little display at SD-6. I find it hard to believe that two professional agents would just decide to have an impromptu kiss at the conclusion of an operation."

"What do you mean?" Vaughn says.

"I mean I want to know how far back it goes."

"We've already said that was the beginning."

"But you had feelings for each other prior to that?"

Damn it. Despite the chill in the room, he's growing hot under his collar. He resists the urge to loosen his tie. "Yes, I suppose so."

"You suppose so." Kendall stares at him for a moment, a long mocking pause. "And yet I have no requests from you for reassignment on file. Are they missing?"

"No. I think Sydney and I were able to compartmentalize our emotions effectively. We didn't let it affect our working relationship."

"And you consider ignoring orders to run after her compartmentalizing your emotions effectively?"

"He was concerned for my safety," Sydney says. "I'd like to think that we work for an institution that encourages concern for fellow agents."

"It does, Agent Bristow. What it does not encourage are emotional displays that could compromise the integrity of what we're trying to do here."

"Do you honestly think that's what this was?" she asks.

"If I didn't, the two of you wouldn't be here."

The room silent and still, Kendall staring at Sydney. She must be staring back, her eyes narrow, nothing left to say.

Wilson taps his pen on the table like it's a drumstick, finally speaks. "Do you intend to continue the relationship?"

"Yes." In unison, the only positive thing about this day.

"Do either of you have anything else to say?" Kendall.

Yes. Fuck off and take this charade of a fair hearing with you .

"Yes." Sydney. "Regardless of how Vaughn — Agent Vaughn and I felt about each other, regardless of what our relationship is, I think it's important to remember that we've done a lot of good work for this Agency. Don't forget that."

"Very well," Kendall says. "If the two of you will excuse us for a moment, we'd like to talk here."

Sydney rises first, chair skidding out behind her. It slams into the wall before he can catch it, rolls halfway back to her but doesn't fall over. He rises delicately — she has already made her point — and follows her outside the room, closing the silver metal door behind them.

It is barely shut before she begins. "Can you believe him? Can you believe that? That whole hearing was just to steamroll us, and that's exactly what he did."

He walks over to her, lays his hand on her arm, wishes its weight could calm her. "Syd, there was more than just Kendall in that room — "

"Vaughn, I don't think the other agents said more than 10 words combined." Her breath hot in his face as she turns to look at him. "It was all Kendall and his giant ego, throwing his power around, with no thought to what's good for the Agency. No thought for what's right."

"Some things he said, though, Syd — this last operation — "

"Don't," she says. "It was your gut reaction. Don't make me stand here and rattle off all the times your gut reaction has saved my life. Just don't, Vaughn. Don't let Kendall get to you."

He slides his hand down her arm, lets it rest at his side. Wishes there were benches out here, some sort of place to sit. "What do you think they're going to do?"

"I don't know," she says. She reaches up, runs a hand over her hair, pulled back in a neat braid. The braid and a classic black suit, today, as professional as she could possibly look. _It still isn't enough, is it?_ "They won't fire us, I don't think. Beyond that, I'm not sure."

He tenses as the door clicks open. They will know soon enough.

Wilson stands in the doorway. "We're ready for you."

Vaughn walks in first, Sydney right behind him. He forces himself to stare at Kendall for a moment before he sits, rolls his chair into place, but Kendall isn't giving anything away. When Sydney is seated beside him, Kendall begins.

"Agents Bristow, Vaughn, thank you for waiting. As I'm sure you're well aware, there is no official rule in the Agency against fraternization among agents, although it's certainly discouraged for obvious reasons. Case assignments, however, are at the sole discretion of the Agency. Generally, we take these situations on a case-by-case basis, considering what's in the best interests of the CIA.

"Given your blatantly unprofessional behavior, both on this mission and during the SD-6 operation, we have decided it would be best to reassign one of you. Because of Agent Bristow's background with Arvin Sloane, we want her to remain on her current assignment here with the Joint Task Force. Agent Vaughn, you have been reassigned to Counterintelligence. You should report to Los Angeles headquarters, starting tomorrow. Before then, you will turn in briefs on all of your pending cases."

"Sir — " _Probably a good time to start using that title._ "I think this is overreacting. I've been working with the Task Force for a long time, and I think that the contributions Agent Bristow and I have made — "

"Overreacting is what you did in Prague, Agent Vaughn. This is not open for discussion."

"He's right," Sydney says. For a moment, it seems she's going to rise out of her chair and lean over the table, get in Kendall's face. "We can't afford to lose Vaughn. Where are you going to find someone else with his experience, his qualifications?"

"This may come as a surprise to you, Agent Bristow, but there are other competent agents in the CIA."

"None of them have been working with me on the SD-6 case for two years. Vaughn knows Arvin Sloane almost as well as I do — "

"Agent Bristow, what part of 'not open for discussion' don't you understand?"

She lays her hand on the table, a hard, muted slap. "No, you understand this. I don't trust a lot of people in this world, much less this Agency. I trust Vaughn. Don't think I won't quit if I lose that here."

You can't quit, Sydney. Kendall knows that.

"If you quit, you quit," Kendall says flatly. "Regardless, those assignments are final."

———

He makes the long walk back to the rotunda alone, Sydney gone as soon as they left the conference room to try to find her father. Plead their case, and hope Jack Bristow holds some sway where they do not. This will be futile — even if Jack agrees to speak for him, Kendall will not budge, especially not for Jack. But he had let her go. Let her hope a little while longer, let her fight. She needs to hope, to fight.

Unlike the wing they've been in for much of the morning, the rotunda is bustling — agents typing rapidly at their desks, a few talking into earphones, guiding missions. One brushes past him, a stack of files in her hands. All people he's worked with over the last half-year, has grown to know, and he will have to leave them now. Not just Sydney. Weiss, everyone.

Across the floor to his desk, nearly empty — everything regarding his work on the SD-6 case already documented and filed away. Kendall asked for briefs on his pending cases, but the manhunt for Arvin Sloane is all he's been working on since the end of the Alliance. He'll need a brief on Sloane, then. And, he realizes, his final statement as Sydney Bristow's handler, something he'd never quite gotten around to doing.

Sydney, first. He clicks the mouse to pull his computer out of standby, works through the set of logins required to unlock the desktop. He's not sure what to even say about Sloane; anyone who might read the brief will probably know as much about Sloane as he does, if not more. Perhaps given some time he can come up with a little insight. _Not that it matters. You're not going to be rewarded for anything in the near future._

He pulls open a briefing form. _Bristow, Sydney A._ in the name field and her ID number, memorized long ago, down out of habit. _Description: Final statement as handler_, but he has no idea what to say.

Praise her? _Sydney Bristow is one of the most courageous agents, and courageous people, I've ever met. I watched her endure things that would make most of us not want to get out of bed in the morning, but she persevered, and won, eventually, which is probably why I fell in love with her —_

No. He needs to explain how to work with her, how he's tried to keep her safe, not why. Needs to explain that it's not that she isn't capable; he knows this, has always known this. She is as capable as any agent. It is not that she needs protection. Oversight, perhaps, is what he would call it. Backup, maybe.

She can shoot, can drop anyone hand-to-hand, can act out any persona, can think on her feet. But she is also prone to wild improvisation, to risk, to ignoring orders. He has learned all of this, has learned to respect her and to anticipate, to plan for every possible contingency. Plan A is not enough. You design a mission for Sydney Bristow, you come at it with Plans B and C, too, and they better be flexible.

He works — worked — comms with these things prepared. One linear mission on paper and a dozen offshoots in his head. Ready with floor plans and security overrides when she decides to take this hallway instead of that one, pursues someone she shouldn't, enters a room when she knows it will trigger an alarm.

Whoever comes after you isn't going to do that.

That thought, the realization that's been creeping up on him since Kendall's announcement, nearly paralyzes him, his throat tight with fear. _She's not going to have you here anymore._

Weiss approaching — a distraction, and he needs it. Vaughn waits for him to speak first, not sure what to say.

"Hey, Mike, I heard," Weiss says. He lowers his voice. "You know Kendall's just doing this to make an example out of you."

"Yeah," Vaughn says. "But that doesn't make it any easier, and there's nothing we can do about it."

"No, probably not. But, you know, you are kind of lucky."

"Lucky? That's the last thing I'd call this."

Weiss glances around the rotunda, grabs a chair from the desk nearest them, rolls it over and sits down. "Let's face it. You two haven't exactly been very good at hiding it. You still get to be together, you've still both got jobs, everybody's alive, SD-6 is gone. And really, it's kind of amazing you weren't called on the carpet and reassigned for this a long time ago."

"You've never really approved, have you?"

"No. I mean, I guess if it was going to happen, it was going to happen. I just didn't want to see one of you get hurt, or worse yet killed, because of it. That's what I mean by lucky. Don't get me wrong, I am happy that things worked out for you. But you were bound to have to make some sacrifices, and this was your sacrifice."

"I know. But I just — I feel like I'm leaving her alone here."

"Hey." A little sharp. "She's not alone. I'm still here. Her father's still here. Not to mention she's one of the best agents out there. She's pretty good at taking care of herself."

"Yeah." _Most of the time. But everybody needs backup, especially her, the way she operates. And she shouldn't have to take care of herself._

"When are you out of here?"

"This afternoon. I've got a few briefs to wrap up and then that's it."

"Damn. Why didn't Kendall just have a couple guards pick you up and toss you out the front door?" Weiss rises. "I've got a satellite to watch, but you let me know if you need anything."

"I will, thanks."

He waits until Weiss is halfway across the rotunda before he lays his hands on the keyboard and begins to type.

Sydney Bristow is the best agent I have ever had the privilege to work with.

———

The guard appears half an hour after his unimaginative brief on Arvin Sloane is complete, filed electronically. He sits, staring at the empty screen of his long-since-shut-down computer. _Yes, you can do this. You can get up and walk out of here for the last time._

"Excuse me, Agent Vaughn?"

"Yes?"

"Jeffrey Billows." The man is large, a big red face dropped on top a thick neck. He shifts slightly, side to side. "Kendall asked me to give you any assistance you needed."

"You mean Kendall asked you to babysit me until I was out the door."

Billows stares at him, a just doing my job face.

Shit. Now you're yelling at a guy you just met. "I'm sorry. It's been a rough day."

"I imagine. You done here?"

"Yeah. I guess I am." He rises. Billows is a good half-foot taller than him, and noticeably larger. Probably capable of throwing Vaughn out the door by himself, under Weiss' theory. No need for a second agent.

"You have any personal effects here? I can get you a box. Going to have to examine them before you can leave, though — "

"No. I don't have anything." His desk at the rotunda hasn't lent itself well to decoration — the pictures and books, pencil holder, clock of his old office went into a box somewhere in his bedroom closet when he moved here full-time. Anything he might actually need — spare clothes, bottled water, Excedrin — he keeps in the trunk of his car.

"Well, that makes things easier. I am going to have to check you for electronic devices, though."

"I leave here every day. No one's checked me for electronic devices before."

"It's just protocol, Agent Vaughn."

It's just because you've never had a reason to be a disgruntled employee and a security risk when you left before.

"We can move somewhere a little more out of the way for this, if you want," Billows says. He points to one of the small rooms on the edge of the circle.

"Sure, I guess."

Vaughn can feel the rotunda watching as they cross, the heads that turn and follow their path. The room has windows, and they are still exposed then they step inside.

Billows closes the door. "Okay. I'm supposed to ask you if you have any electronic devices on you. Anything. Cell phone, watch, calculator, whatever."

"I have a cell phone and a watch."

"I'll need to see them, please."

Vaughn pulls the cell phone from his suit pocket and places it in Billows' beefy hand. It takes the man two tries to slide the battery latch in the back and sweep the insides with his index finger. He clicks the battery back into place and works through portions of the menu, thumb darting back and forth over the major buttons. Vaughn isn't sure if this is all part of some checklist Billows has memorized, or if the man is just supposed to make some sort of security display before letting him leave.

"Okay." Billows places the phone on the ledge made by one of the windows. He takes the watch, next, pulls a small screwdriver out of his shirt pocket and uses it to pop off the back. His finger traces the battery and everything else inside, then he snaps the back on again. The watch joins his cell phone on the shelf.

"I need you to step forward a bit more, away from your stuff," Billows says. Vaughn does, following him into one of the corners of the triangular room — extra space made by the rotunda jammed inside a square building. "Need to ask you again, do you have any other electronic devices on you? Anything at all?"

"No."

"Okay, then." Billows reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out a small metal wand. "Last chance."

Vaughn shakes his head. Billows uses his free hand to adjust the wand, getting a better grip, then he presses a button the side. A faint, high-pitched whine.

"Arms out, if you will," Billows says. He starts at Vaughn's head and begins waving it over his body, always a few inches away, all the way down to his feet. It reminds Vaughn of an airport security check, although he hasn't been through one of those in awhile. Most of his travels have been official enough to credential his way past security, or join one of the Agency's private jets on the tarmac.

"Gonna need you to turn around, now."

They must be watching him in the rotunda, standing around, peering through the window at him, standing here with his body in a T. A hot wave of sweat under his shirt, shame and embarrassment. _This is not your fault. This isn't because they don't trust you. Surely they understand that. The important ones do, anyway._

Billows repeats the process behind him. "You're all done, now."

Vaughn turns around and Billows pockets the wand. "Was the metal detector really necessary?"

"Not a metal detector," Billows says. He steps toward the shelf, picks up the watch and cell phone and hands them back. "Magnet. If you did have anything else electronic on you, it sure as hell ain't working now. Which is sort of the point."

They exit the room, Billows holding the door. "You got anywhere else you need to go? I'm supposed to stay with you, of course, but I understand if you want to say goodbye to folks."

No, saying goodbye is for retirees leaving in triumph, achievements scattered throughout the record, gold watch and all that. Not for this. "If it's okay, I'd rather just get going."

"Oh. Okay then. You're parked in the garage?"

"Yes."

Across the rotunda, two junior agents stand, arms crossed, staring at him. Caught, both turn to the computer screen beside them.

He rushes toward the garage door, Billows a half-stride behind, but Watson — junior agent, two missions and several briefing papers he's familiar with — intercepts.

"Agent Vaughn!"

Vaughn stops, waits for Watson to close the distance between them, shake his hand. "Just wanted to say, it's been good working with you. Good luck with everything."

"Thank you, Jim." He returns the handshake briefly and notices they're starting to draw a small crowd. Rick from tech, Carol the pool secretary, Wright and Baker from Analysis. He should have known he wouldn't be able to slink out of here Still, the attention feels like a show of support, something to make him straighten his spine for the agents whispering around the edge of the place.

He vaguely notices Weiss walk up to the fringes of the group, lets them tell him it's been good to work together and they're going to miss him around here, best of luck.

Weiss speaks after the crowd finally dissipates. "You leaving?"

"Yeah."

"I'll walk with you. Where's Sydney, by the way?"

"Trying to track down her father and see if he can pull some sort of eleventh-hour reprieve."

"That would be impressive, even for Jack Bristow."

"Yeah, I'm not holding my breath."

Billows subtly but effectively blocks the door to the garage, most of his bulk in front of it, hand on the lever. "I'll need your badge. Credentials stay the same."

Vaughn reaches over to his suit pocket, unclips the badge and hands it over.

"After you exit, your fingerprint will be pulled from the biometric access database. You will no longer be allowed to enter the facility. Do you understand this and attest that you've left nothing behind?"

No, I'm an idiot. I don't fucking get that you're not going to let me back in here, ever.

Easy, easy. He's just doing his job. That came straight out of the manual.

"I understand."

Billows turns the lever, pushes the door open, and lets them walk out. He does not look back, although he wants to, badly.

———

Sydney and Francie's apartment is old, but well-maintained, and they have decorated it timelessly: knickknacks, candles, books and small lamps fill every space. In that, a sense of permanence, that they've bought things to fit here and intend to stay for a long time. As someone who's lived in his current apartment for five years but never decorated much beyond pictures and throw blankets — mostly presents from his mother — he appreciates the permanence. It appeals to him, feels like a real home.

They go out to dinner, and to various places, date places — hockey games, the occasional movie — but much of their time is spent here. He will invite her over to his place some day, maybe try to dress it up with some candles, more pictures, first. There is no rush.

Sydney is not there when he arrives, but Will opens the front door for him. There is no sign of Francie, but this is not strange; Sydney told him early on that Will was essentially their third roommate, even before he and Francie began dating.

He accepts Will's offer of a beer, half wishes for something stronger. Better to wait until Sydney arrives, for that.

There's a basketball game on the television in the living room, volume low, and a laptop computer open on the coffee table.

"Stealing Internet access," Will says, pointing to the laptop. In this case, 512-bit encrypted wireless access, funneled through a secure router, supplied by the Agency. He raises his beer, almost like a toast. "And beer."

Vaughn laughs. He likes Will, has since he met him, and he's been glad that Will has stayed friendly since he and Sydney revealed their relationship.

"What game is that?" Vaughn asks as they sit, Will on the couch by the computer, Vaughn in one of the chairs.

"To be honest, I don't even know. I'm so used to being in a newsroom — TVs, police scanners, people on the phone — I can't work without a little background noise. Too quiet, you know?"

"Do you miss it?"

Will cocks his head slightly. "Yeah, I do. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like what I'm doing now, and I think it's important, and challenging. But I do miss reporting. And I miss all the people I used to work with."

"I just — I was just transferred. Because of my relationship with Sydney."

"Man, that sucks. How is that even their business?"

"Because of what we do, they make everything their business."

"Still, though, you guys were doing good work. I've heard things, people talking."

"They shouldn't have been talking."

"Not anything specific," Will says. "Just what a good team you are."

"Not anymore." He takes a fairly substantial swig of beer and sinks back into the chair.

Sydney enters, slams the front door shut, keys on the kitchen counter with a clank.

"Hey, Syd." Will slaps his laptop closed, stands, computer in one hand, beer in the other. He starts toward the kitchen. "I should take off. You know, actually spend some time in my own apartment."

"You still have your own apartment?" She delivers it weakly, out of obligation.

"Funny, Syd." Will tosses back the rest of his beer and dumps the bottle in the trash can under the sink — the one Sydney pointed out as "recycling can" during Vaughn's second visit here, next to the regular one. "Fran's working late at the restaurant, so you guys can have the place to yourself. I'll see you later."

Will leaves, and Sydney sits on the couch beside him, eyes his nearly gone beer. "I found my father. He went in and talked to Kendall."

"Really?" _And here you thought Jack Bristow wouldn't do shit to help you._

"Yes. He said Kendall wouldn't budge. I'm sorry, Vaughn." She slides a hand up his arm, squeezes his shoulder gently.

"Tell him thanks for trying. And thank you for trying."

"I just wish I could have done something that would have actually worked. I can't believe Kendall, that he would put his own ego or his own whatever over the best interests of the Agency."

Her hand falls from his shoulder, makes a fist beside him on the couch. "I should quit — I could quit in protest. Maybe that would get some attention from Washington. I was supposed to be out now, anyway. SD-6 is gone, and I'm still here, slaving away for people like Kendall who just want to ride their agents to the next promotion. I'm sure this will look good for him, the big disciplinarian, sending a message or whatever, well — "

"Sydney, you can't quit. Sloane is still out there. And I wouldn't want you to quit like that."

He can feel her slump a bit on the couch as the anger — and maybe the hope — leaves her. "I know." She turns toward him. "What are you going to do now, Vaughn?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I can do. I don't want to work in Counterintelligence, but I think I'm going to be stuck there for awhile. I'll just try to get out as soon as I can. Get a field position, maybe even analysis. Anything but CI. What about you?"

"I'm going to get Sloane and then get out," she says. "Maybe once I'm gone they'll go easier on you — it'll be easier for you to transfer somewhere better."

"I don't want you to leave for me, Sydney."

"I'm not. I said I was out as soon as SD-6 was gone. I'll stay to get Sloane, but it was my plan all along to leave. This just gives me more motivation."

She reaches up, brushes her fingers across his cheek, gently turning his head. "I am sorry, Vaughn." She leans in, kisses him softly on the lips, pulling away before he can respond through the dull fog brought on by the beer and the weight of the day. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you."

"You'll do fine, Sydney."

Silence, the pads of her fingers grazing the back of his neck. _Does she believe that? Do you?_

She pulls away, stands. "Why don't I make some dinner?"

"I'm really not hungry."

"Then I'll just throw on some spaghetti or something." She attempts a smile. "I am hungry."

Into the kitchen. Sydney searches the cabinets — jammed full of pots, pans and utensils, mostly Francie's — for a mid-sized stainless steel pot. He leans back against the counter, watches her fill the pot with water, place it on the stove.

"Speaking of dinner," he says. "Remember, we're supposed to go out with my mother tomorrow."

"Are you sure you still want to go?"

"She really wants to meet you, and I don't want to reschedule on her again," he says. "I'll be okay."

She crosses the kitchen, picks up a tall container labeled "Pasta" in loose ceramic script, carries it over to the stove. "We've never really talked about what we're going to tell her."

"Tell her about what? Our relationship?"

"No. About my relationship, to my mother, what she did —"

"Sydney, absolutely not." It comes out harsher, louder, than he'd thought it would, especially the way she's been for him tonight. Softer, now. "She doesn't know anything beyond the official Agency story of his death to begin with. She knows that I know more, now, and she's made it very clear that she doesn't want me to tell her. And she's right. I've seen the files, Sydney. What happened to him — the pictures — "

That thought and everything else today finally gaining on him; he is losing control, nearly in tears. He blinks, forces himself to look at her. "There's no reason to tell her, Syd. It's no different than not giving her those details. And it's completely irrelevant."

"How can you say that, Vaughn? My mother killed her husband and I'm just going to sit down to dinner with her? I think it's very relevant."

"Sydney, that happened when you were a year old." _A year old and mommy was everything to you and she went out and killed my father and ripped our lives apart. _"You had no bearing on it. Telling my mother would only bring everyone more pain, and there is absolutely no reason to dredge that back up."

"Are you sure?" The water boiling behind her.

"Yes. Very sure."

She pulls a fistful of spaghetti from the container and cracks the bundle in half, tossing it all in the pot.

"Okay, then. If that's what you want."

If she is angry, it's not visible by the time she turns around.


	3. 1x2: Hunter

Chapter 1.2 — Hunter

Wednesday, February 18, 2003

The eighth — and top — floor of the CIA's Los Angeles headquarters has been completely reconfigured since Vaughn was last here. A fresh coat of off-white on the walls and the temporary office dividers moved into a new configuration that seems to wind around more than it should.

It takes him an extra few minutes to get to Devlin's office, although it hasn't moved, still in the nicer, more permanent bank of them along the far end of the floor. It is not quite 7:30 — he'd arrived early, best behavior — and Devlin's secretary isn't here yet, but the door to the office is cracked. He knocks, twice, and eases it open.

It has been six months since he's last seen Arthur Devlin, and the man looks like he's aged considerably in that time. Grayer, more haggard, somehow, small behind the broad cherry desk that dominates his office. He wears tortoiseshell reading glasses, and his eyes seem to bulge behind the thick lenses when he looks up at Vaughn.

"Agent Vaughn. It's good to see you again — although obviously not under these circumstances." He gestures to one of the chairs in front of the desk, black leather and brass studs. "Have a seat."

"It's good to see you too, sir." He sits, and waits. The room is dark, most of the morning sun drowned by heavy maroon curtains.

"Have they explained much about the new position to you?"

"Not much. Just that I'll be working in Counterintelligence out of this office."

Devlin nods. "Well, it's a new slot. They say there's a need for it, but I half wonder if they created it for you. I don't think they could come up with a more spectacular waste of your skills if they tried."

Holy shit. Did he just really say that? Someone on your side, maybe, for once.

Use it. Use him. It's all you've got.

"At any rate," Devlin continues, "Most counterintelligence work will still be done by the FBI, and the crew at Langley on the CIA side. But they wanted someone from the Agency to work in CI on this coast. Particularly looking internally."

"You want a molehunter."

"Yes, in essence. You will coordinate with the FBI branch office here. I've taken the liberty to schedule you a meeting with them this afternoon, so you all can introduce yourselves."

"Okay. Thank you."

"I meant what I said, earlier, about this being a waste of your skills," Devlin says. "You know they're just trying to make an example out of you."

Tread carefully. "Yes, I've heard that before."

"That's because it's the truth," Devlin says. "I tried to block it, or at least get them to reassign you somewhere more appropriate, but I don't have any control over what goes on in that rotunda anymore. Let a little time pass, and then we'll try to find something better for you here."

He leaves on an unexpected surge of optimism, clinging to Devlin's words. _ A little time, and things will get better. A little time. You can wait that out._

———

His office is not nearly the size of his old one in this building, which had come with his promotion to senior agent and garnered a whistle from Weiss the first time he'd stepped inside.

Three of the walls are solid, the fourth one of the temporary dividers epidemic in the building, covered with gray fabric and about a foot short of the ceiling. He remembers this as a conference room, now apparently halved.

The desk is mostly barren, like the rest of his office, file folders and a few forms from HR stacked in the middle, surrounded by a wide expanse of blank oak. He will need to find all of those old pictures and books and bring them back in. Maybe some new pictures — one of Sydney, if it feels like it doesn't highlight the reason he's here.

After a morning spent going over the briefings Devlin had suggested, he'd been surprised by a knock on his door. Adam Brown, whom he'd worked with, lunched with, and had a few beers with occasionally before moving full-time to the JTF, welcoming him back and asking if he'd maybe like to go to lunch with a few folks.

He'd known most of them, been introduced to the rest, and then conversation had slipped into office politics he knew nothing about. Not one of them had mentioned Agent Bristow.

He is waiting, now, for the FBI agents due at one-thirty, and trying not to think about how much he hates the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had been listening to tales of interagency squabbles — even worked under one senior agent who referred to them as "fibbie pukes" — long before they'd essentially kidnapped Sydney.

That Kendall is FBI certainly hasn't helped his position, but he must keep an open mind. These particular agents haven't done anything to him, or Sydney, and he may well be working with them for a very long time.

He checks his watch. 1:27. They are not late, not yet, but he'd prepared for them to be early, and he's left to sit here and wonder what they'll be like, what they'll want him to do. What he's actually supposed to be doing here at all.

The knock on his already-open door doesn't come until 1:32, and he stands to greet them. One thin, charcoal hair, charcoal suit. The other fighting nearly the same 50 pounds as Weiss, but younger, suit a little more modern. Thinner, older enters first and shakes Vaughn's hand.

"Lawrence Brooks."

"Michael Vaughn. Good to meet you."

Brooks sits in one of the chairs in front of Vaughn's desk — standard cheap gray fabric on rattling plastic wheels — as the second man approaches.

"Andrew Morse. It's nice to meet you, Agent Vaughn."

"Likewise." Morse sits beside his partner as Vaughn moves around the desk to his own chair. Both have come empty-handed — not much of an agenda today, then.

"Devlin set this meet up," Brooks says. "We'll make it quick — we've got a lot on our plates."

Bit abrupt, aren't we? Give him a chance. "Okay."

"At any given time, Morse and I have up to 500 case files running. Anything suspicious — reports from coworkers, bank activity out of the norm, travel that stands out — we start a file. Then we start looking for more activity that rings our bells. Occasionally, we find it, and then we launch a full investigation. We've got two of those running now."

"Devlin gave me the briefing papers on those."

"Good."

"Is there any of that I can help with?"

Brooks has a pale, sullen face. His brown eyes are surrounded by wrinkles, and he narrows them a bit. "No. I was under the impression you'd be drumming up your own work. Your director Devlin said you didn't have any experience in CI."

He leans back, chair creaking. "Look, I appreciate that the CIA wants to take on some more CI work, but we don't have time to be training you. You come up with something in your investigations that might help us, you pass it along. We'll do the same for you. But I don't look at us all as a team, per se. We can't be babysitters."

Damn. Fuck that chance you were offering. "I wasn't — I just thought that since you sounded swamped you might need some help."

"Agent Vaughn, it's nice of you to offer," Morse says. "But it's probably better for you to get your bearings first rather than have us dump a pile of cases you're not familiar with on you."

Morse seems nice enough. Vaughn wonders how often the younger man has to smooth things over for Brooks, if Morse considers the older man a mentor. _How the hell does he work with this guy on a regular basis?_

"Now, if you've read the briefing papers, I think that's all you need to know," Brooks says. "You let us know if you've got something going on next week. Does one-thirty Monday work for a weekly meeting?"

Vaughn nods.

"Good," Morse says. "Although if you have anything more urgent come up, feel free to contact us. We'll do the same for you."

"Good, thanks," Vaughn says. He stands, puts on his best office-play-nice smile and offers Brooks, then Morse a second handshake. "It was good to meet you both."

Liar. Maybe there's just something about the FBI that churns out assholes.

———

After Morse and Brooks leave, he sits and rifles through the files again, his earlier optimism gone, his future here stretching long and unfilled in front of him.

What are you supposed to do for the rest of the day? Fuck the day, what are you supposed to do for the rest of this job? Face it. You're fucking lost. You haven't done anything other than try to take down SD-6 and find Sloane for years. _It's all you know._

Another knock at the door, and he glances up.

Sydney, standing there in his doorway, long and lean in a black pantsuit.

"Syd — hey."

"Hi." She smiles broadly. "How are you doing?"

"Bored out of my mind."

"Oh." Her smile wanes to nothing. It would be so much easier for her, for both of them, if he was happy here. "It's just the first day, Vaughn. Give it time."

"I know," he says. "It's just frustrating. I knew how to do my old job. I was — I think I was pretty good at it."

"You were very good at it. You'll be good at this one, too." She closes the door behind her and moves over to one of the chairs. "Your office is a hole."

"Yeah. I think that's more of my punishment. So did you come here to see how my day went, or make fun of my office?"

"I — actually I came here to tell you I'm going to have to miss out on dinner again tonight. We had another mission come up. I'm on my way home to pack and then I'm off to the airport. I'm really sorry, Vaughn. Please tell your mother that."

"It's okay. I've had to cancel plans plenty of times on her. She doesn't like it, but she understands. She really did want to meet you, though."

"Some other time," she says. "I wanted to meet her, too."

He wonders if that is the truth, if Sydney really wants to know his mother despite her guilt over what her own mother has done. "What time do you have to be at the airport?"

"Five."

Five and she's on her way to a mission without him, somewhere, anywhere. Mystery mission not known, not approved, not double-checked by him. Someone else working comms, someone else reviewing op-tech. And Sydney still taking the risks.

He knows this feeling. It came in paper bags and phone calls, arrived like a stranger at the door, knocking loud, unannounced, bad-news letter in hand.

Vaughn, they're sending me to —

Vaughn, SD-6 wants —

Seeping through him, now, a deep, tense dread. He'd thought there would be more time to prepare.

They could be sending her off to her death. This could be the last time you see her alive.

"Are — are you going solo? They haven't had a whole lot of time to replace me."

"No. Weiss is going with me," she says. She reaches up to the top of her head, smooths her hair. "Vaughn, I'm sorry, but I really can't tell you more than that."

May as well have slapped me in the face, Sydney. He knows it wasn't her intent, and that she's likely been lectured on just what — nothing, probably — she's allowed to tell him, and that she hated that she had to say it. _It still hurts. Hurts us both._

"It's okay. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable. I just want someone out there I can trust to back you up. I'm sorry it ended up this way, Sydney."

"It's not your fault," she says, eyes dark and pained. "I really should get going."

"Do you know when you'll be back?" _Can you even tell me that?_

"Tomorrow evening, hopefully, unless things are delayed. I'll call you when I get in."

"Okay." He stands and strides around the desk, glad suddenly that this office is all solid walls — no windows and blinds. She stands, leans into him, arms around his waist. Slow, soft kiss.

"Be safe," he murmurs into her cheek.

Please be safe.

———

Outdoor restaurant, always his mother's preference if the weather's halfway decent, and it is today, if a bit chilly. Good to get out of the hospital air, she always says. It's why she spends much of her free time in the garden, or on her porch, reading. Large-print books, lately, he's noticed, and tried not to let it trouble him.

She must have made reservations for three; she is sitting at a table for four by herself, drinking coffee from a wide, squatty mug. Large-print books and a few more prescriptions aside, she has hardly aged in the last 10 or 20 years. Hair streaked with gray but back in the usual braid, and probably more lines on her face, but he sees her often enough they're hard to notice. Still tall — only a few inches shorter than him — and lean, up on her feet most of the day. He has taken to thinking of her as ageless, a comforting notion.

"Mom." She rises, and he embraces her.

"I don't see Sydney."

"No." He sits down across from her. The table feels far too large; the extra place setting makes him think of Sydney, probably in the air now, file folder in her lap, someone else's mission inside. "She had work come up. She's really sorry, but she's not going to be able to make it."

She sips her coffee. "I was under the impression the two of you worked together."

"We did, but I was transferred to another department."

"Transferred?" Her voice a motherly _I should have heard about this by now._

"Yeah. It just happened yesterday. They didn't want us working together while we were involved in a relationship."

"Michael, you've just started dating." Her hand on the coffee cup, poised a few inches above the table. "It's a relationship already?"

"I've — I've known Sydney for several years. But there were — circumstances at work that made it impossible for us to date until now."

"I see." She finally raises her hand for another sip of coffee. "How do you like your new assignment?"

"I'm really not sure yet. I've just started." He feels worn down by the questioning, as if she's interrogating him. He'd thought this would be a celebratory dinner — here, Mom, meet Sydney, isn't she wonderful? Instead, it's been her slowly prying the mess his life has become out of him. "Sydney really does want to meet you. Hopefully we can reschedule for some other time."

"Of course. And this will give you some time to tell me about her, first." She smiles. "This girl is very important to you, isn't she?"

———

This night is going to be like the old days, and he had really hoped that was over. Back then it was Sydney, his new recruit, and then Sydney, just Sydney, and Alice asking where his mind was at this evening. So many evenings, sitting on the couch, his stomach tight, only slightly relaxed by drink.

And this night back to the very beginning, when he'd sent her away and waited for her to contact him, back when he didn't have satellite surveillance, couldn't talk to her over a comm link.

At least back then he knew the mission.

He arrives home to a cold, empty apartment, almost expecting Donovan to come scampering in from the dog door as fast as his old bulldog legs can carry him. He'd thought briefly about getting another dog after he'd had Donovan put down several months ago. But he'd decided that Donovan — adopted from the local shelter shortly after he'd graduated college, long before he'd even applied to the CIA — ought to be the last until he had a job with more regular hours.

But maybe he's got it now, and wouldn't that be the ultimate revenge, to Kendall, to the Agency, to get a dog and work eight to five? He does not want this. He wants to do his job — the old job — and do it right.

Keys with a clank on the end table nearest him, the living room fairly neat, although probably a bit dusty. The room is predominantly beige, like much of the rest of his apartment. Tan carpet, darker couch and chairs. One of the throws from his mother covers the back of the couch; it is navy blue and red, knitted, and provides most of the color. Pictures, mostly family, on the end tables. He definitely needs a picture of Sydney, or maybe one of the two of them together, for here if not work. He'll need to track down his camera in the hall closet, buy film.

He turns, pounds up the stairs to his spartan bedroom, the larger of the two in the apartment. The other bedroom, too small to hold much beyond a twin bed, serves as an office instead. It is rarely used — he's long since reached the point where much of his work is too classified to bring home — and so it has become a place to pile other things he doesn't use as often as he'd like — hockey stick and skates, basketball, baseball gloves.

He avoids the temptation to drop his suit in a heap on the floor, hangs it instead. The first day of his new job and his mother's interrogation have left him weary and it would be nice, so nice, if he could just crawl into bed and sleep. Clean T-shirt, sweatpants, back the living room.

It takes him a minute to find the remote under the far end table, and he stands, thumbs through the channels, decides on a basketball game he doesn't care about. Volume low; he'd rather try to make some headway on the new _ Economist_.

Into the kitchen, to grab bottle of Bass from the fridge and pull the magazine from the foot-high stack — all unread — on the counter.

Back to the living room, the couch. He opens the magazine, tries to read, but he finds his attention drawn to the television. Eventually drifting into the questions:

Where is she? What is she doing? Have they started the operation yet? What does she have to do? How dangerous is it? Who's there to back her up? How long would it take them to tell you, if something went wrong?

How much harder will it be for you to lose her, now that you actually have her?

She could die out there. She could be dead right now, or dying, and there's nothing you can do about it. Somebody caught her, somebody shot her —

Stop. Stop it now.

He is familiar with the cycle, with the thoughts that race on some uncontrollable level of consciousness, rising surreptitiously, striking, until he realizes he's doing it and halts them, but only temporarily. This is already as bad as it's ever been, as hard as he's ever been pummeled by these fears, and this is his indefinite future.

Back to the magazine, U.S. terror policy. The last thing he needs right now, but he tries. The words stretch in front of him, an endless, impossible train. _Start at the beginning and let's go._

Dead. Dead in a puddle of blood. Dead and a bullet in the brain.

Weiss: I'm sorry, Mike, there was nothing we could do.

And you don't even know where she is.

Stop it. Back to himself, back to the living room. He is clutching the beer bottle — now warm — dangerously tight. He sets it on the coffee table in front of him, doesn't bother with a coaster. It rattles a little on the glass top.

She's fine. She's fine. Lakers 53, Raptors 42_. What if she's not? _ Shaq in the paint, Lakers up by 13._ What if she's not and you never see her again? _His magazine abandoned on the coffee table._ She'll be fine. She's the best._

She might be fine, she might do fine, but you have reviewed every single mission she's had since you've been her handler. Every single time you've sent her off and known that you'd done everything possible to make sure she'd stay safe. And even then you worried. But at least you always knew.

Now you don't even know where the fuck she is.

You have got to stop, damn it. He stands, too agitated to remain still on the couch any longer. The remote control falls, thud on the floor. Pacing through the kitchen, checking out the back door for a dog no longer there.

Up the stairs, and he can see her. Formal ball, her hair done up and a long red dress, stunning. Filthy nightclub, too-short skirt, hair some shade of red or blue or purple not found in nature, save maybe for tropical fish. The desert, or maybe the mountains, simple camouflage, her hair back in a braid. _One of these, none of them?_ He wonders how he's going to last the night, all the unknown hours until she returns.

Running shoes, dragged by the laces out from under his bed. He'll go for a run, now, although he knows it won't help. He's got to do something, and maybe if he is lucky, this will leave him exhausted enough to drift for a few hours on the couch. _She's fine. She's fine._

He steps out of the front door into a cold, thin drizzle and the last bit of twilight. Keys clenched in his right hand, some part of him registering that it's probably not a good idea to be out here now, that he's asking to get sick, but he needs this. He starts without bothering to stretch. No particular distance planned, no particular route.

He knows, feet on the wet pavement, spat spat spat, that he can't — won't ever — overcome the tense restlessness that marks these nights. He stares through the rain, misting in his face, and watches Sydney in the evening gown, stabbed in the back, blood dark on the dress. Sydney with the crazy hair, gunned down as she exits the club. Sydney in camo, climbing, rope cut and falling from the mountain, arms flailing, screaming.

What would you do if you lost her now?


	4. 1x3: Munich

Chapter 1.3 — Munich

Thursday, February 19, 2003

He arrives at work half an hour early, 30 more minutes he will have to fill. But he'd woke long before he should have this morning, after a few hours of shallow sleep on the couch, the television still on, bass fishing in place of the Lakers. Sleep seemed impossible, and he'd decided there might be more to distract him at work.

There would have been, at his old job. Here, he has no clue where to start, no idea how to occupy himself until five, much less do something productive, useful. _They just pull you away from everything you knew, everything you were good at — from Sydney, from Weiss — and drop you into this job you're nowhere near qualified for, with no guidance whatsoever. What the hell do they expect you to do?_

First things first. He turns on his computer, works through logins and security scripts, and then calls up the Agency's secure messaging system. Encrypted at twice the level of the secure servers that are the backbone of e-commerce, and located on a classified network, this is most agents' preferred means of communication. The others — secure telephone calls and paper files transferred via courier — have largely been replaced, in the same manner as their civilian counterparts.

There is one message, from Devlin, sent only a few minutes ago:

Agent Vaughn,

In the last six months, we have had notable security breaches out of the Munich station. I'd like for you to start there, unless you've encountered something more pressing. Start with case files D15-908-5523 and D15-908-5781. You are cleared through Delta-15 on recent operational files, Omega-17 on all historical files 5 years and older. See me if you need authorization for a higher clearance on a specific file. Good luck.

Art

He smiles slightly, thankful that at least someone knew he was going to be floundering here, and locks down his desktop, heads off to the far side of the divider maze for a cup of coffee. The pot is fresh, only one cup gone, presumably to whoever made the coffee.

Powdered creamer, no sugar, back to his tiny office. He unlocks his desktop, pounding through all three passwords, and leaves Devlin's message up as he calls up the records database. The case numbers make it easy to find both records, and he sends them to his printer, although that means he'll have to pack everything in a burn bag later and take it down to Disposal. He'd rather have the paper in his hands, be able to mark it up.

It takes the files awhile to print, and when he goes to collect them from the LaserJet, they're more than an inch thick. Finally, something to do.

Munich had set off a dull alarm in his head, and he recognizes why as soon as he starts to read. The primary task of the Munich station for the last five years has been infiltrating SD-2, headquartered in that city. This first file is a status brief on the station, dated a little over two months ago.

He pulls a fresh legal pad and blue Bic from his desk drawer and reads on, hand and pen poised over the paper, ready to take down anything that stands out in the files. He'll have to deal with disposal of the legal pad, as well, but he's found he prefers them when he's plowing through files.

The raid on the Munich cell was messy — eight agents dead in one of the more egregious examples of a mass operation that hadn't gone as well as they'd originally thought. Some of the cells had rolled over quickly — they hadn't even lost an agent in Montreal, only one in Israel. Others — Munich, Beijing, Chile — had been largely disastrous.

The headquarters of every cell had either been destroyed or secured, lower-level agents and support staff taken into custody. But top leadership had managed to escape, including Arvin Sloane and Alain Christophe. And they hadn't recovered nearly as many weapons or Rambaldi devices as they'd expected. The latter had been completely missing from SD-6, and scant at other cells.

None of the cells will be able to rebuild into anything formidable any time soon, but the CIA still has a lot of cleanup ahead. _Not that you'll get to be a part of it._

This, though, is better than he'd expected. Working on something related to SD-2 means that, in some small way, he will be helping with the Alliance cleanup, helping Sydney. And working in something he considers an area of expertise — he's spent the last three years on the Alliance, assigned first to operations and then as Sydney's handler.

Sydney — how is she? They must be done by now. If something went wrong, you would have heard about it. She'll be fine and she'll be home soon.

Unless she isn't. Unless they just haven't told you yet.

Somebody caught her. Somebody shot her.

Stop.

The words have grown blurry, thick gray stripes across the paper. He narrows his eyes, forces everything back into focus, reads on.

Some of the agents in the Munich station had suspected a mole, someone who was feeding information to SD-2 at the end. The cell couldn't prevent the CIA's strike — they'd moved far too quickly for that — but it was enough to give top leadership, including one Alliance member, the head of SD-2, time to escape. They are still at large.

The file references six other operations with distinct "suspect activity." He notes the case numbers; he'll need to pull them all later. One is the second file Devlin suggested, the operational file for the takedown of SD-2.

Like their own operation into SD-6, this one was large and hastily planned. Twenty-six agents, 18 of whom returned, three of those after a lengthy stay in the hospital. He considers eliminating the dead and injured, decides against it. The mole could have been shot by accident, or purposely, even, to throw off suspicion.

Five of the agents, however, were tactical experts from Station Berlin, brought in to assist with the operation. There were only 35 agents and support staff in the entire Munich station, according to the first file. Twenty-eight, now; one of the dead was from Berlin.

He starts a list on the legal pad, scribbling out the names of everyone from Munich directly involved in the operation, including three who'd helped plan but stayed behind to work comms, and the station chief, Larry Turner. He's never met Turner, and can't recall hearing much about the man, who is in his first posting as chief.

The other five files help him narrow the list until he has nine people who were involved in either the planning or execution of the suspect operations. It is possible that the mole was not directly involved, merely someone with access to the files, but he's got to start somewhere, and this seems right.

He makes a note on the pad to look at bank accounts and financial records. _ That's how you do this, isn't it? You look for the guy who just bought a big-ass house he shouldn't have been able to afford, because that means somebody's paying for intel, or worse._ But he begins by pulling the profiles of his nine. The printer is just winding up when his cell phone rings.

"Sydney" on the call ID, a warm rush of relief through his body.

Thank God. See, she's fine. She's fine. She's fine.

"Hey, Syd."

"Hey." Her voice sounds like a smile. "I just wanted to call and tell you I'm on my way back. I'm still at the airport in — I'm still at the airport. But I should be home later this evening."

"Great. Call me when you get in?"

"Yeah." A pause, and he can hear the airport announcer in the background. It is not clear enough to discern where she is. "I miss you."

"Miss you too," he says. "I'll see you soon."

"Okay. Bye."

"Good bye." He thumbs the end button, leans back in his chair with his eyes closed. _She's fine._

———

Brian Collins, the third agent on his list, is as unremarkable as the first two, and he sits, elbow on his desk, head in hand, and tries not to feel discouraged. This can't be the way to go about thingsEveryone looks good in their profile; the CIA wouldn't hire them if their faults were that obvious.

How do you spot a double agent? You should know, you handled one for two years.

So how do you pick out Sydney Bristow? You look for the holes in her mission debriefs, for the times she said one thing and her partner said something slightly different. You watch for the unexplained absences, see if they match up with major operations in the intelligence world. You find the files she'd been accessing and see if that information was leaked.

So how do you do that with these people? Same way. He decides to skim the rest of the profiles and then look up mission debriefs for each, maybe even file access records. The discrepancies would be down in the details.

He sets to skimming the rest of Collins' file, but he's interrupted by a short rapping on his door. Weiss opens it unacknowledged.

"Hey, how's it going over here in the land of counterintelligence?"

"Not as bad as it was before," Vaughn says. "Is Sydney back already?"

"No. She took a later flight." Weiss spreads his hands wide, an exaggerated smile on his face. "But hey, remember me? I'm back!"

"Sorry. Welcome back." Vaughn pauses. "I was just worried about her."

Weiss crosses the office and sinks heavily into one of the chairs in front of Vaughn's desk. He leans forward.

"Everything went fine. She's the best, you know. Obviously you know. Don't even know why I was there. She definitely didn't need me."

"I'm still glad you were there. Sydney needs someone she can trust to back her up."

"You mean someone you can trust."

"Both."

"You know I care about Sydney, too, Mike. I'm doing my best."

"I know. So everything went okay? Who designed the operation?"

"Smooth op," Weiss says. "Wish I could tell you more, buddy, but we're all under strict orders — "

"It's okay. I understand." He will have to stop quizzing Weiss and Sydney; this is hard enough without making everyone uncomfortable.

"You feeling okay, Mike? You don't look so good."

"I'm fine." He glances down at the pile of papers on his desk. "Just didn't sleep very well last night."

"Are we back to that again?" Weiss doesn't wait for an answer. "You know what you should do? Cook a turkey. Tryptophan, like Thanksgiving? You'll be out in no time."

"Thanks, but no thanks." He's already tried milk, anyway, and prescription zolpidem, which left him groggy in the morning and didn't work much better than the milk.

"Seriously. She's good at what she does. You don't have to worry about her."

"Good agents die. You know that."

"Yeah."

He wishes Weiss had more of a response.

———

Early evening drags along. With a clean apartment and bills paid, there's nothing he needs to do, and nothing he particularly wants to do except see Sydney. Eventually, he takes to sitting on the couch with another game on — hockey, at least, this time, the volume low.

The nine from Munich soon on his thoughts; he's finished all the profiles and none have stood out so far. He'll go through debriefs tomorrow, and hope for better luck.There has to be something — everyone slips up. Even Sydney, occasionally. They were just lucky she hadn't been caught.

His cell phone rings, finally, from the end table beside him. _Better be Sydney._

It is. "Hey, I'm at LAX, but I should be home in about twenty minutes. Do you want to come over?"

He thinks, oddly, of the cartoon Roadrunner, "meep meep" and feet spinning, as fast as he possibly can get over there. A small grin at that, almost giddy with relief. "Of course. Have you eaten yet?"

"No. The airline food looked particularly scary this time."

He smiles again. "I'll pick up some dinner on the way over, then."

"That's okay, Vaughn. I can cook."

"Syd, you just got back. Go home and relax."

"Okay. See you soon."

———

He knocks on her door twenty-two minutes later with a white paper bag of Thai food in one hand, hoping she didn't just return from Bangkok.

She opens the door, clad in a simple black turtleneck sweater and jeans, bare feet. Big smile. "Hi."

"Hi." His free hand around the back of her neck, leaning in for a long, slow kiss. And now he feels truly relieved — one thing to hear her voice on the phone and know she's safe, quite another to be able to see her, kiss her.

She pulls back, opens her eyes, a little breathless. "Come on in."

He follows her inside the apartment, to the kitchen, and places the food on the counter next to her purse and a large black shopping bag.

"I got you some things," she says. "In the bag."

He turns his full attention to the bag, made of good, unlabeled glossy cardboard, ribbons for handles dangling down the sides, considers what might be inside.

"You didn't have to get me anything, Syd."

It's a bit odd, he thinks, that she's buying presents this early in their relationship. Then again, they've known each other a lot longer. And this gives him a good excuse to return the favor — not so soon as to be obvious, but soon enough. Start to work through the list of things he's seen over the years and wanted to buy, but never could. At least he can do this, now.

"I wanted to. I stayed a little later to do some shopping and I saw the one thing and thought of you, and the other — just look in the bag already, Vaughn."

He does, peeling aside the tissue paper on top to find a soft blue v-neck sweater. "It's beautiful, Syd. Thank you."

She gives him a shy, proud smile as he reaches down to the bottom of the bag, wraps his fingers around what feels like a wine bottle. It is — his favorite Bordeaux.

"To replace the one we drank last week. I know you said you could only get it in France."

"So you were in France?"

"Yeah, Paris. We were — " She freezes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't even have told you Paris."

He pushes aside his frustration, crosses the kitchen and places his hand on her arm. "It's okay, Syd. It's just going to take some getting used to, that we can't talk to each other about everything, anymore."

She nods.

"And next time you want to buy me a bottle of wine from France, no questions asked," he says. "Thank you, again."

———

As hungry as they both were, he must have been overzealous in his ordering, because nearly half the food goes into her refrigerator.

He carries two half-full and very large wine glasses into the living room. Not the good stuff; she'd suggested they save that for a special occasion. It had occurred to him briefly that in their business you couldn't be sure there would be a next special occasion, but he'd just nodded and said okay, opened a California cabernet instead.

He hands her one glass and sits close beside her on the couch.

"So how's the new job going?" she asks.

"It's not going much of anywhere right now, but I'm surviving. What about you? I know you can't tell me anything specific, Syd, but have things been okay for you?"

"Fine," she says softly, her eyes distant, like she's holding something back. "It's really school that's killing me. I've got this big paper due Friday that I've barely started, and I'm going to try to take the day off tomorrow, but you know how that goes."

"Yeah."

She takes a sip of wine, turns to him. "I'm sure it will all work out. It always does." Big, fake smile.

Don't you know I know that one, Sydney?

"Syd, what's wrong? Is it school, or is it work?" He stares into her, willing himself to be patient, to wait, draw her out.

Her shoulders slump. "Work. There's something going on right now that I'd like to talk to you about, but I can't."

There are few things she could have said that would hurt more, but he tries to hide it. He shouldn't attempt to stop her if she wants to follow the rules now, of all times. But before, if something was really bothering her, she would tell him, clearance be damned.

She has to know she can trust you. She does know, she does trust him — he wouldn't be here right now if she didn't. Perhaps his transfer has scared her back to the rules — it would kill her to be pulled from the hunt for Sloane.

He realizes he's left a long silence, and speaks carefully. "Syd, I don't want you to break protocol. But I also don't want you to be carrying something around that's obviously bothering you. You know anything you say to me stays between us. You know you can trust me."

She appears on the verge of tears for a moment, then blinks it away. "I know. But Vaughn, it's really not a big thing. I'll be fine."

It is a big thing, he thinks. It is a big thing and she's pushing it away. But he knows from experience that she will not share until she's good and ready. He waits for her to make the next move.

She does, tossing back the last of her wine and placing the glass down on the coffee table. "Will and Francie are going to be out late tonight," she says, sliding her hand up his free arm. She takes the wine glass from his other hand and sets it next to hers on the coffee table, then slips a leg over his, straddling him, her palms flat on his chest.

She leans in to kiss him, hard and slow, and slides her hands down his chest, up under his shirt. It feels good, amazingly good; it hasn't taken her long to learn how to touch him, her fingers light, feathery, skimming along his stomach. Too good, and yet he can't give himself fully to the sensation, can't let go, because this feels like a distraction, something meant to pull his attention away from whatever's worrying her.

You used to be the one that knew everything, and yes, she kept secrets from you sometimes, and they always hurt. But now there are always going to be secrets, and you're just going to have to deal with it.

Her hands on his chest now, delicate little kisses down his neck. _Just let it go._ His hands find the seam of her sweater, the warm, smooth skin on her back and this, he thinks, this makes it worth it, because they're together.

And isn't that what you've wanted, for so long?


	5. 1x4: Dixon

Chapter 1.4 — Dixon

Friday, February 20, 2003

He arrives at work well-sexed, if not completely well-rested, still a better start to today than yesterday, when he was neither.

He checks his messages — one new, Adam Brown asking if he's got any preferences for lunch — and decides to check bank accounts before he delves through the debriefs and access records. Better to exhaust his other options before those two, because if they fail, he won't have a clue where to go.

So he pulls bank accounts, real estate transactions, credit card statements. Pages through hundreds of them, until his eyes go dry and dull. An endless stream of numbers that might mean somebody is taking money on the side, but are more likely innocuous, and no obvious standouts.

He will try what he's been meaning to try all along this afternoon. And if that doesn't work, he may have to fly out there and question them. But that is premature; maybe something from operations or records will stand out, and he'll catch his mole that way.

His cell phone rings, interrupting his inspection of one agent's sizable credit card bill.

Sydney. "Hey."

"Hey. How are you?"

"Good," she says. A lie? "Look, I wanted to call and tell you not to come over, at least right after work. I'm going to have to go in."

"They couldn't even give you one day off?"

"They did, but they're going to release Dixon today. My dad told me. He thought I'd want to be there."

Access to Dixon has been strictly limited while he's been interrogated, so this will be her first chance to speak to him since the fall of SD-6. From what she's told him already, he is fairly sure it won't go well.

"Okay. Why don't you call me when you're done, if you want me to come over."

"I will."

———

He is still at work when she calls again, cataloging discrepancies between mission debriefs in tight scrawl on the legal pad. There are more than he'd expected, and this, finally, is progress, even if he doesn't yet know how to begin to pare everything down into a few suspects.

There is a long pause after he says hello.

"Syd? You there?"

"Yeah." Barely more than a whisper. She is distraught, but trying to hide it over the phone. "Did you still want to come over?"

"Of course. I'll be right there."

The security scripts to shut down his computer seem to take longer than usual, as do his walk to the parking deck and the short drive to her apartment.

She opens the door before he can even knock. She has been crying, her face puffy, eyes weary.

"God, Syd." She steps into his embrace as soon as he can get his arms out, sobbing in short, soft gasps against his chest.

It takes a long time, it seems, for that to slow, but when it does, he ushers her into the living room, arm around her shoulders, keeping her close. Sitting beside her on the couch, waiting.

"Dixon, he just — " She makes a fist with her hand and presses it to her mouth, as if she's trying to push back the tears. "He laid into me. How could I know and keep this from him, he said. How could I let him believe he was fighting for this country and all the while he was working against it?

"I told him that I wanted too but I couldn't," she says. "But he wouldn't listen. 'I'm a terrorist,' he kept saying. 'I'm a terrorist.' I didn't know what to say. What could I possibly say to that?"

"There was nothing you could say, Syd. He just needs time, but he'll come around," he says. "This is all fresh in his mind right now and he can't process it all yet, so he's lashing out. He'll see eventually — he has to see that there was nothing you could do, that you couldn't tell him because there were just too many risks."

"I told him that. He said that if I trusted him, I would have told him. He said I never really trusted him." She begins crying again, face in her hands. "I trusted him with my life."

"You have to give him time, Syd." Rubbing her back. "What about recruitment? I know they were considering Marshall and Dixon as long as their stories cleared."

"Marshall already signed on. I don't think he knows how to do anything else. I think Dixon's the same way, but he told them no."

She turns toward him. "I'm worried about him, Vaughn. This — finding out about SD-6, it really rocks the foundations of your life, and I wish he'd talk to me, because I know what it's like to go through that. Maybe I could help, if he'd let me in."

"Just be patient, Syd." He pulls her into a tight hug, her head resting against his shoulder, hair soft under his hands. "Dixon's lucky to have you as a friend."

She pulls him closer, crying again.


	6. 1x5: Evasion

Chapter 1.5 — Evasion

Saturday, February 21, 2003

He wakes in her bed, but partially clothed — boxers and T-shirt — which is a change. It had been late last night when he'd moved to pick up his keys and leave and she'd quietly asked — long since done crying but her eyes still distressed — if he would stay, please.

The request had surprised him; he's stayed over plenty of times since they began dating, but there's always been sex involved. He slides his hand from her stomach to the warm sheet between them, and wonders how big a step this is.

He uses one elbow to prop himself up and watches her, still sleeping soundly, long shallow breaths. She was restless for much of the night, periodically pulling away from him and then returning, closer than before, until apparently exhaustion kicked in. He'd drifted off long before that, too much sleep missed over the last few days.

The light from the window outside is faint but growing, which puts the time at six-thirty, maybe seven. He glances around the room and halts, as usual, in the corner, the lone bookshelf in her bedroom, top shelf covered with candles. Two on the bottom completely empty, dusted clean.

The empty shelves had struck him as odd the first few times he'd been here. Then one day she'd opened the closet door and he'd noticed the books, stacked on the top shelf. Old, leather-bound, gold lettering on the spine — her mother's books. He'd stared for too long, overcome with the thought that somewhere in those books there were orders to kill his father, destroy his life.

She'd noticed, said she was sorry; she just couldn't bring herself to get rid of them. It's okay, he'd said, and wondered if she moved them recently, in anticipation of him visiting, or long before, when she first found out about her mother.

Sydney stirs beside him, and he returns his attention to her. Drowsy eyes sliding open, a weak smile when she sees him.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi. How are you feeling?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not very good at giving things time."

"It'll be okay," he tells her, skimming his fingers down her arm. "What are your plans for today?"

"I really need to finish that paper before I end up going on another mission."

"I'll get out of your hair, then, if you want," he says. "Maybe we can do something this evening, if you're done? Go out to dinner, maybe?"

"Yeah. I'd like that."

She kicks the covers away and stands, waiting for him to follow her.

———

Will and Francie are already in the kitchen, corn flakes and half a pot of coffee gone. He stays a step behind Sydney as they enter. He'd known this would happen, that they would meet in the morning, and figured it would be likely after he'd heard the other couple come in late last night. Still, it feels odd to be walking in half-clothed when he barely knows Francie and essentially recruited Will into the Agency. He has been hoping to spend some more time with them — Sydney is so close to both, it feels important to get to know them. But he'd prefer a different situation, something planned.

"Morning guys." From Francie, seated next to Will on the other side of the counter. Will echoes her greeting gruffly; he's never struck Vaughn as a morning person, although he's never had proof of this until now.

"Good morning." He moves to pour himself a cup of coffee, then walks around to sit next to Will. Sydney starts rummaging through a cabinet, in search of a different box of cereal.

Small talk for him, then. He'll try Francie, first — of the two, she's been more distant, less what he'd expected, based on what Sydney has told him..

But then, you knew Will before. Maybe it'll just take her some time to warm up to you. "How's the restaurant going?"

"Good. We were packed on Valentine's Day, so I think the numbers this month are going to be really great," she says. "What about you, Michael? How are things at the bank?"

"They're okay," he says. "They actually just transferred me because of my relationship with Sydney, so I'm just settling in to my new department."

"They transferred you because you two were dating? That's interesting."

Interesting isn't the choice of words he would have used. "Yeah. We weren't very happy about it, but there isn't much we could do."

Sydney sits down beside him, bowl full of shredded wheat and a cup of coffee.

"That's so sad," Francie says. "Do you have to go on a lot of trips? Sydney's always off on trips. I can hardly keep track of her."

"No," he says. "My job mostly keeps me here in Los Angeles."

"Hey, Fran, we should probably get going." Will stands and collects both of their bowls and mugs, striding around to the kitchen to dump them with a series of clanks into the dishwasher. He glances up at Sydney. "You mind?"

"No," she says. "I think you've washed enough dishes in the last couple months. Get out of here."

"Very funny, Syd." He walks back over to Francie, now standing halfway to the front door, waiting. "We'll see you guys later," he calls out, and they leave, Will's arm around Francie's waist.

Sydney waits until long after the door has clapped shut to speak. "Things seem to be going really well between them." She grins down at her cereal. "Will was so freaked out when they first started dating. Fran was much calmer about everything."

"She seems pretty calm about most things."

"She's been — different, I guess, since they started dating. I guess we've sort of grown apart lately. I've been so busy, I know I haven't invested the kind of time I should into our friendship. I was thinking now I could, with SD-6 gone, but we're both in relationships — not that that's a bad thing, obviously. But I'm not sure we'll ever get back to being as close as we were."

"You will," he says. "If you want to, you will."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I should get going, and let you get to work. I'll come back later, maybe six?"

"Yeah, that should be good."

He leans over, takes her chin in his hand. Long, lingering kiss, and he has to force himself to break away. "I'm going. Really. Now."

A big broad smile, his reward. "Give me a call if you need more time on your paper, okay?"

"Okay."

———

He calls Weiss as he's driving home. It takes him six rings to answer.

"Mike, we've had this discussion. 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday is not an appropriate time to call. Ever. Unless it's the apocalypse. And even then, I mean really, there's not much you're going to be able to — "

"You can go back to sleep in a minute. I just wanted to see if you wanted to do a game and pizza this afternoon."

"And what's Sydney doing this afternoon? She's busy, isn't she?"

"Uh, yeah." _Apparently Sydney isn't the only one who's been neglecting a friend. _"Sorry, I know I've been kind of scarce lately."

"Just kidding, Mike. I know you two have a lot of time to make up. But, you know, I would like to actually see my best friend every once and while. Your place or mine?"

"Mine," Vaughn says. "It'd be nice to see my apartment every once and awhile, too."

"Good. Mine's a mess."

"What else is new?"

"Whatever. Noonish?"

"That's fine."

Noonish means at least 12:30 to Weiss, which is good. There is something else he needs to do, first.

———

He parks on the curb outside a large pale yellow house in an older suburban neighborhood, about a half hour from downtown today, likely double that during rush hour.

He shouldn't have been able to get this address from work; the JTF has all files related to Marcus Dixon. But profiles of the agents Sydney had the most contact with were a part of her file, and he still has access to that. He'd stopped at work and copied down the address before heading home to shower and change. Khakis and a polo shirt, a little more casual. He hopes it will help that he's not a wearing a suit, but something so superficial probably won't matter to Dixon.

He walks up the concrete drive and then the winding sidewalk, flanked with bushes and fresh mulch. Stops when something under one of the bushes catches his eye, bends over to pick it up. A baseball, dirty and scuffed. Somebody's played a lot of catch with this one, he thinks, turning it over in his hand, running his thumb over the red stitching on the seams. He sets it down on the edge of the porch — someone should see it there — and rises to knock on the door.

It takes Dixon a long while to answer, and although Vaughn has never seen him up close, in person, he's certain that this face is haggard, for Dixon.

"My name is Michael Vaughn," he says. "I've been working with Sydney for the last two years."

Anger flashes across Dixon's face, and he steps outside, barefoot, standing on a clean, worn "Welcome Home" mat, closing the door behind him.

"What do you want? I thought I'd answered everything you people want to know."

"I'm not here to ask you any more questions," Vaughn says. "I'm here to talk to you about Sydney."

"I have nothing to say to her or about her."

The cold force in Dixon's voice surprises him. _No wonder she was so upset._

"You're angry at her for not telling you."

"Angry — " Dixon pauses, voice choking. "Angry does not even begin to describe it."

He finds himself feeling sympathetic toward Dixon, sorry for the obvious pain of betrayal on his face. And yet also angry at him, for hurting Sydney. He takes a deep breath, collects himself.

"I was Sydney's handler, at the CIA. You want someone to blame? You want someone to be angry at? You be angry at me. I was the one who told her she couldn't recruit you. She begged me — on more occasions than I can count — to bring you in. And I told her that we couldn't risk it, that the Agency didn't trust you, and I couldn't let her do that. Not to mention the danger she would have put you in — "

"I would have wanted her to," Dixon says. "I would have wanted the danger, if it meant I knew the truth, and I had a chance to work on the right side."

"Would you have wanted that for your family? They killed Danny. That's how she found out in the first place. Would you want that for anyone you care about?" He thinks briefly of Dixon playing catch with a nameless, faceless child of eight or nine, and feels a little sick. "You know, she saved your life. She risked her cover to save you, when you were shot. She called us, for medical transport."

"I figured that," Dixon says, much of the strength gone from his voice.

"Then how can you stand here and be angry at her, and shut her out? She only did what she thought was right — what was right — and even then she felt guilty for lying to you."

"What do you want from me?"

"Just talk to her. Give her a chance. I think you owe her that."

Dixon nods, slightly. Vaughn isn't sure if it's a yes, or even an acknowledgement, but it is probably all he's going to get.

"She said you turned down their offer for recruitment. Can I ask why?"

"Yes, I did," Dixon says. "And no, you may not."

"That's a shame. She told me how good you were. She respected you, and no matter what you might think, she trusted you. Trusted you with her life." _And she needs that again, now more than ever._

"I'm done with the intelligence world. I think I've done enough damage already."

"I guess if it were me, I'd look at it as a way to do some good. I know it's your decision, but it's the Agency's loss. We need more people like you out there." He stares at Dixon. No reaction. "I won't take any more of your time. Just, please, talk to Sydney."

He turns and starts walking before Dixon can respond.

———

The pizza arrives before Weiss does. Sausage, pepperoni, green peppers and onions — long their tradition, started by Weiss. "Pizza's the best way to mask the vegetables," he'd said, and Vaughn had been afraid to ask if those were the only vegetables he ever ate.

The pizza box goes on the kitchen counter next to two bags, one paper plates, one napkins — they always try to get through the afternoon without having to do dishes. He returns to the living room and switches on the television, starts to flip channels. He hadn't planned exactly what they were going to watch, but they often don't. Really, he just wants to spend some time with Weiss.

Weiss walks through the open front door, yells a hey into the living room and heads straight to the kitchen for a paper plate overloaded with three slices, plus a beer.

He sits next to Vaughn, who's settled on college basketball, glancing down at Vaughn's two-slice plate and Coke can.

"You're not drinking? Beer-and-pizza afternoon necessitates beer, Mike."

"I might have one later."

"You're going out with Sydney this evening, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"You two make me sick, but it's okay, really. I take it things are still going well?"

"Yeah. I sort of keep waiting for the bottom to drop out."

"You think it will?"

"I don't know. It's going really well now, but — there are a lot of things we're going to have to work out, eventually."

"Once the shine wears off?"

Vaughn marvels briefly at Weiss' ability to work through a whole slice of pizza in this time and still carry on a conversation. "Something like that," he says. "She had to miss dinner with my mom because of the mission earlier this week."

"You weren't going to tell her, were you? Your mom? About her mom?"

"No. But she wanted to, and I know she feels guilty, and nothing related to Irina Derevko is ever going to be easy between us, especially as long as Sydney wants to have some sort of relationship with her." He shakes his head. This is not what he wanted to concentrate on right now.

"Considering how amazing it is that you've made it this far, I think there's hope for the two of you," Weiss says.

"I hope so." Vaughn takes a swig of Coke and settles back into the couch, decides maybe he will have a beer. Maybe even two, just relax for awhile.

"How are things with you?"

"Okay," Weiss says. "Not much going on, really. Work's been keeping me really busy."

"Yeah, Sydney too."

Your best friend and your girlfriend, and you don't know what's going on in either of their lives. It's not like you and Weiss usually have deep conversations, but at least you could always talk about work. That's gone, now.

He stands, half-full Coke can in hand, and heads to the kitchen to swap it for a beer. He'll drink that, they'll watch some of the game, and maybe, eventually, that will give them something to talk about.

———

He knocks on Sydney's door just before six. Another shower, mostly to clear his mind of the second beer, and a dark suit now.

She answers, wearing a simple, well-cut red dress, hair pulled back.

"You look amazing, Syd."

She smiles. "This is what I bought for myself in Paris."

"I like it better than my presents. And I really liked my presents."

Her smile widens.

———

The restaurant is downtown, and although he's been here several times and loved the food, the real reason he picked it was because it was upscale enough to mean she'd need to wear something along the lines of the red dress.

There is a long silence after they've sat and he's ordered a bottle of wine; they're still not very good at dinner small talk, especially now that they've exhausted all of the major things they've wanted to learn about each other. Now they're down to little details and the day-to-day, and he is no longer allowed to know about a big chunk of her everyday.

"How's your paper going?" The only safe topic he can think of.

"It's almost done," she says. She seems subdued tonight, quiet during the car ride here, quiet now.

"Syd, is everything okay?"

"Yes." It sounds like a lie, looks like a lie. "I'm just tired."

"Is it whatever's going on at work?"

No response.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it? You don't have to give me any specifics."

"It's a lot of things, really," she says. "I just wish we were making more progress on Sloane. I don't think I'll really feel free until we catch him."

"You'll get him, Syd. If you can take down the Alliance, you can find one man."

The waiter arrives, then, with the bottle, and he inwardly curses the interruption. There is still something else bothering her, and maybe that was his chance to draw it out. He watches her, staring back at him, giving nothing away, as he lifts his glass, takes a sip and declares it fine.

Why won't you tell me, Sydney? Why?

He wishes he could just come out and ask her. Instead they sit, sipping their wine, and he tries to convince himself that he must be blowing this all out of proportion.


	7. 1x6: Generations

Chapter 1.6 — Generations

Monday, February 23, 2003

He is late to work today. He'd turned onto the entrance ramp to the freeway, his old route to the JTF, driving out of habit. It had been another exit and 15 minutes gone before he'd been able to get his route righted.

He walks into his office determined to work through the operational files before he leaves. Find some clues, move this case along. Get an accomplishment in his file, in front of the official reprimand and transfer order.

Computer on, startup security, thinking of the day before — grocery shopping with Sydney in the afternoon, once she'd finished her paper. Oddly domestic, especially since they've barely been together three weeks, but it still felt right.

Two secure messages, one a reminder from Brooks that they're to meet this afternoon. The second from Devlin, requesting a status brief on Munich by the end of the week.

Pulse racing briefly, fear of failure.

You'll get it. Anybody could come up with something by the end of the week. Besides, he's on your side. You think.

He unlocks his desk drawer and pulls out the pen and legal pad, clicks open records and starts pulling Station Munich's operational files from the last six months. A total of 43, enough to stack from floor to ceiling if he opted to print them. He'll read on screen, instead.

He opens the first file. Operations are what he's skilled in — at least from the other end, the planning end, before the mission's run. One year at Station Rome, two in India, and then yanked — or so he'd felt — back to Los Angeles. Devlin had explained it there, said the station chiefs were impressed with his abilities in mission planning and review. Spend some time in operational planning, and then they'd see if perhaps there was an opening for a case officer.

He'd been upset at first, despite the praise. Field agent was glamorous. Field agent was Sydney. Operational planning meant pushing a pencil and never lifting something heavier or more dangerous than a stack of files or a headset for comms. He'd started to change his mind once he'd realized he was thriving. A few years and they'd assigned him to Sydney, and it had all, oddly, worked out.

But here you're not looking for how to make this go smoothly. You're looking for holes, discrepancies.

Pen poised, he begins to read.

———

His cell phone, dropped on his desk when he arrived, is ringing when he returns with his third cup of coffee on the day. One at Sydney's, one here when he'd started to feel groggy about an hour into the files, and now this one, from the same pot and smelling vaguely like burnt popcorn.

He sets his mug down and grabs for the phone, not sure how close it is to the end of 12 rings.

Sydney.

"Hey, Syd."

"You talked to Dixon, didn't you?"

He's known her long enough not to be shocked by the abruptness. "Yeah, I did. Why? Did he talk to you?"

"He talked to me and he came back. He said he'd reconsidered the CIA's offer." She pauses. "I don't know what you said to him, but obviously it had an impact."

"I don't think it was anything I said. From what you've told me about Dixon, I think he was headed there regardless of what anyone said."

"Still, thank you."

"Did you have a chance to talk to him?"

"Yeah." A longer pause. "Things still aren't great between us, but at least we're talking now."

"Good. Just give him time, Syd."

"I know," she says. "Vaughn, that's not the only reason I called. They're sending me on another mission."

His stomach lurches, and he knows they will keep coming, that he's going to keep hearing that from her. _And every time it's going to kill you._

"Is Weiss going?"

"No, actually. They're sending Dixon with me."

"That soon?" A little relieved. One more person she can depend on, one more person she trusts.And she has been working with Dixon longer than any of them.

"Yeah. They were ready to activate him Friday if he wanted it. All he had to do was say so. We're obviously a little short-handed with you gone."

"That's their own fault." He is surprised by how bitter it sounds. "I'm stuck over here chasing vague leads, and meanwhile you're short men on the search for Sloane. All so Kendall could prove a point."

"I've told them that," she says. "Weiss has, too. But Kendall's not budging."

"He wouldn't be Kendall if he did."

She laughs softly. "Hey, Vaughn, I've got to get going."

"When will you be back?"

"Maybe tomorrow, but more likely Wednesday."

"Okay. Call me," he says. "And good luck."

"Bye." She ends the call.

———

Mission number 16 he actually remembers. Sydney had reported that SD-6 was planning to steal several computer files from an office building in Bonn, but she'd been assigned to another operation. Without time to send a team from Los Angeles, they'd asked Station Munich to copy and then replace the files with decoys before SD-6 arrived, a failed operation.

One agent in, one on comms, he reads. Separate statements from each.

Agent on comms, Rees, reports scene clear as the point agent, Wolford — number eight on Vaughn's list of nine — makes his way into the building. Wolford disables a security guard with a spray anesthetic, the formula for which the Agency had stolen from SD-6, courtesy Sydney.

Wolford into the company's server room, Wolford accessing the files. Wolford announcing he's got everything. Keychain USB drive, no special op tech needed.

And then Rees loses comm contact. Vaughn flips over to Wolford's account. Out of the server room, into an ambush. At least two, maybe three agents, Wolford writes, he can't really remember.

Wolford didn't have a chance, found unconscious by Rees, who chose to rush the building. Keychain USB gone.

How do you lose something that small? Wouldn't you put it somewhere secure? You would, unless you planned to hand it over. Little bump on the head and some of that anesthetic, it'd be pretty convincing. Something along the lines of what Sydney would have done. Brush passed you that drive and told Sloane the files weren't there.

He flips to the back of the file. Wolford declined medical attention. _ Welcome to the top of my list, Agent Wolford._

He's interrupted by a knock on his door, closed this time. 1:35, already.

"It's open," he calls out, then stands when it seems there's no response. It drifts open, and Brooks walks in, followed by Morse.

"Afternoon, Agent Vaughn," Morse says.

"Good afternoon."

They sit, and he feels the need to do something hospitable. Offer them water, coffee, something. Maybe it would help loosen Brooks up.

No. Brooks would just see the time required to walk across the floor and pour a cup of coffee as a waste. Vaughn sits, instead, and waits for them to settle.

"Since we last met," he says, "I've been exploring a potential leak in the CIA's Munich office. I've looked through agent profiles, bank accounts, and I'm starting on operations right now."

"Did you check customs declarations?" Brooks, condescending.

"No. I thought there might be more in the operational files." _Asshole. I haven't been doing this very long, but I'm not an idiot._

"I assume you've got a list of suspects going?" Morse asks.

"Yes. It's still pretty big, right now, but I'm working on narrowing it down."

"Let us know when you do," Morse says. "We can pull anything we might have on those agents. It's not likely we'd have a file on any of them, but you never know."

"Thank you."

"As for us, we're working primarily on resolving three cases." Brooks nearly cuts him off. "Two DOD contractors that like to talk too much, and a CIA agent out of Langley. I doubt you'd have anything on him, but I'd like you to pull whatever you can. Name is Jim Sinclair. S-i-n-c-l-a-i-r."

Vaughn scrambles to pick up the pen and write down the name on a fresh page of the legal pad. "Okay."

"Beyond that," Brooks says, "We're just on the regular watches. We'll let you know if anything noteworthy comes out of them."

Brooks and Morse seem like they've been doing this too long. Too settled into their jobs, too far gone to try to think outside of the box. He wonders if Morse has some good ideas, if he defers to Brooks too much because Brooks is older. He finds himself feeling sorry, again, for the younger agent.

"Is that all?" Brooks asks.

"I think so."

"Then we'll be leaving. Good afternoon."

Brooks stands and strides out, but Morse stays behind, rising and hovering in front of Vaughn's desk. _Maybe he's stayed behind to apologize for Brooks. Wonder how much he has to do that._

"Bristow's your girlfriend, right?" Morse asks. "Sydney Bristow?"

"Yeah. Why?" _I'm not about to help feed the gossip mill for you, Morse._

"Somebody pulled her DNA profile from FBI records last week. We don't usually check into things like that — file that's a year old being accessed — but her records still had a flag on them because of her double agent status. We like to know when people are looking into double agents, you know?"

Vaughn nods. "Do you know who pulled the file?"

"No. It was somebody with Omega-17 clearance, but the access records were incomplete."

"Incomplete? Does that mean someone tampered with them?"

"Not necessarily. We've been having problems with the electronic access software. About one in every 30 requests turns up blank. IT assures us they're working on it."

"Doesn't that leave you open to security breaches?"

"Let's just say I wish IT was working on it a little faster." He reaches down and clacks open his briefcase, pulls out a manila envelope. "This is a copy of what they pulled. I'm sorry I don't know anything else about it, but I figured you'd want to know."

"Yes. Thank you."

———

He rips open the envelope as soon as the door clicks shut behind Morse. _ DNA profile. Why would someone want her DNA profile? Why would someone want any of her files, but especially that?_

Because they knew about the Prophecy. Because they somehow found out about it and they wanted to make sure it was Sydney. Same as the FBI did, when they tested her in the first place. But who would —

Sloane. Oh god, Sloane. Who else would it be? He could be after her right now. If he thought she was the woman in the Prophecy, he'd take her.

He stands, stalks across the office, considers what to do now.

Take it to the JTF? Take it to them and he won't have access to the investigation. No, he needs to know.

Tell Sydney? It's nothing concrete, and she's got so much going on already, whatever's bothering her. If he tells her and it's nothing, it's just needless worry. But what if it's not nothing?

Jack. He could take it to Jack. He knows what's going on in the JTF, and he would know if this was somehow linked to anything there. And he's on Sydney's side.

He picks up his cell phone, thumbs through the directory until he finds Jack's number. _What if he's not here? What if he's on a mission somewhere? What if he tells you to fuck off? No, that's not Jack's style. He'd just sniff and dismiss you._

Jack answers quickly. "Yes?"

"Jack, it's Michael Vaughn."

"I'm well aware of that."

Perhaps this was a bad idea. "Are you in town?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Agent Vaughn, but yes, I am."

"Look, I was wondering if you were free tonight. Could we maybe go out and get a drink? There are a few things I'd like to talk to you about."

A pause. Jack must be surprised, as surprised as Jack Bristow gets. "Certainly. The bar down the block from central headquarters, would that be acceptable?" Curt, blunt.

"Yes. I'll meet you there, say, seven?"

"Yes."

He presses end, walks back to his desk and sits down.

Who else besides Sloane would want her DNA profile? What else could they need it for besides the Prophecy? It couldn't have been someone from the FBI, CIA, doing something routine. _There's nothing routine about needing that information._

But how could Sloane know about the Prophecy? It is classified Omega-17, locked away in records. He would have to have a mole in the Bureau, or the Agency.

If he does, it's your job now to find him.

———

It is nearing twilight as he approaches the bar. The sky laced with vapor trails from planes long gone, and maybe one of them is hers. One heading east, New York and on to Europe. West, Japan, or maybe Hong Kong. South, Mexico.

Ten minutes early and no doubt Jack will already be there. He opens the door and doubles the light inside momentarily.

This bar is good place to hide in the corner and keep watch over a warming tumbler full of something from the top shelf. Dim faux-Tiffany lamps over the tables, dark wood, black mesh screens drawn down over the windows. A place that thrives because so many men have to keep so many secrets not far away.

Jack is already waiting, sipping scotch in a booth off to the side. Chosen well — Jack can see the front door from his seat, and probably reach the rear exit in under a minute.

Vaughn walks to the bar first and orders. Harp, off tap. The place is far from full, and it's in his hand promptly. Ten on the bar, keep the change, leave us alone. He walks over to Jack's booth, beer in one hand, briefcase in the other. There is a Zippo lighter flipped open on the table, one of op tech's latest bugkillers.

Vaughn sits, takes a sip. "Thank you for coming out here — "

"Agent Vaughn, if this is to inform me that you're dating my daughter, some sort of ploy to get into my good graces, you can stop right now. I don't operate that way, and we're well past the point where I'm going to change my opinion of you." Strong, but level.

Just what is his opinion of you? "I wouldn't think of it." Vaughn reaches down into his briefcase, snaps it open, pulls out a file folder. "This is Sydney's DNA profile. Someone pulled a copy of this from FBI records last week. They don't know who."

"Did you tell Sydney about this? Or anyone else?"

"No. I wasn't sure who to take it to. That's why I called you. I wanted someone who was on her side."

"Good." Jack pauses, stares straight at Vaughn. "I pulled those records."

"What?"

Jack takes a thin sip of scotch. "Over the years, Arvin Sloane has said things to me, never outright, but he has insinuated that he is Sydney's father. I didn't believe it at first, but eventually, I came to think that if I could not trust my alleged wife, perhaps I could not trust her faithfulness. So I pulled Sydney's DNA profile to run a paternity test. I needed to know, but I couldn't ask her to have blood drawn. I scrambled the access records so that Sydney and the Agency wouldn't know I'd had my doubts. I didn't want her to become any more of a target for gossip than she already is." He finishes with a pointed look at Vaughn.

So it was Jack, because — damn.

"You cannot tell anyone this," Jack says. "Especially Sydney."

"Wait a minute. I think she has a right to know."

"Tell me why, Agent Vaughn? Give me one good reason why my daughter needs to know any of this. The test showed I was Sydney's father. Greater than 99 percent match."

"You accessed her records. Didn't you think that would get back to her eventually?"

"The only way it's going to get back to her is if you tell her. And if you tell her, you'll only be causing her unnecessary pain. While I appreciate that my daughter's boyfriend — " Jack half spits the word — "places such high import on the truth, all you'd be telling her is that I let Arvin Sloane get me to the point where I doubted what I should have known to be true all along. What possible benefit would knowing that have for her?"

He's right, you know. It was Jack's doubts. She's really his daughter. This doesn't change anything.

Jack lifts his glass, tosses the rest of his drink. "Thank you for your concern. I trust you'll keep this quiet?"

"Yes."

A big swig of his beer as Jack rises, walks out. _It bothers you because your first allegiance is to Sydney, not Jack. But what's right for her here is to protect her. Like Jack said, there's no reason to cause her unnecessary pain._

It isn't wrong. It just feels that way.

———

Lesson learned, or more remembered from the old days, he starts this night with a run. Walks back inside on rubber legs, upstairs for a quick shower.

Fresh T-shirt and sweatpants, back to the living room. He picks up the remote, tries the on button once, twice, three times. Nothing. _Dead batteries. Shit._

To the kitchen, junk drawer. Donovan's collar sitting on the top; he'd forgotten it was in there. He picks it up, listens to the tags jingle, looks just beyond the kitchen, to the back door and the dog door cut out of the bottom. Remembers when the sound was common around the apartment.

He grabs a beer from the fridge before returning to the living room. Following the formula tonight: run, drink, and hope the television lulls him to sleep. A hockey game on ESPN, and at least this is something he's supposed to be interested in. On any other night, perhaps, he would be.

At least Dixon's out there with her now. She trusts him, and he's capable. As good an agent as we've got out there. He's got more experience than you and Weiss put together. She's probably better off in the field with him than you. But who's doing your old job? Who's reviewing the mission? Who's working comms?

You don't need to be out there. You just need to be involved. You need to know something — any fucking thing — about what's going on in that rotunda. What's bothering her. Something is definitely bothering her.

She'll be fine. She'll be fine and she'll come back.

She'll come back and then you'll have to lie to her about what her father did. But it's not lying. It's omitting, and it's the right thing to do. Just omitting, not telling her.

Isn't that the same thing as lying? Isn't that exactly what you think she's doing to you, and you hate it?

Stop. He tries to watch the game, tells himself to follow the action, focus on the puck.

Somebody caught her. Somebody shot her.

———

Tiny little white house with the field of tall grass in the back, rippling through the strong wind. Past that to the cliff, where his mother had said to never, ever, go, and he had always obeyed.

His bedroom, small, second story. Pale blue flowers on the wallpaper, simple wooden toys. Bookshelves filled with books he'd outgrown and those he was supposed to grow into, and a few in between.

Big old black Mercedes in the driveway. He watches from the window, hands folded on the sill, foggy, disjointed.

The driver's side door opens. Black shoe, black pant leg. Weiss steps out.

The hands are adult hands, one wearing a wedding ring. It looks like his father's, the same serpentine pattern etched in the gold.

He runs, now, through the hall, down the steep, narrow staircase. Running, running, running, to the front door.

It creaks open under his hand. Weiss is already waiting, Dixon standing behind him.

"Mike, we're so sorry — "

"No."

No. No. No. No. No.

"Mike — "

His knees buckle and he is kneeling on the floor, head in hands, sobbing. _ No. No. No. No. She was the best. She was not supposed to die._ Even as much as he feared it, she wasn't supposed to die.

"Mike, I know this is hard, but you have to stay strong."

"Why? There's no reason. She's gone. I can't — Weiss, what am I going to do without her?"

"For her, Mike. For her."

Weiss looks beyond him.

Little girl, standing in the hallway behind him. Brown hair, pigtails. Six, seven, eight, maybe. "Daddy, why are you crying?"

Oh no. Oh shit, oh shit, we didn't. Sydney, we didn't.

"Sweetheart, Mommy isn't coming home."

Michael, Daddy isn't coming home. Sydney, your mother isn't coming home.

God, Syd, not another generation.

He wakes violently, the near-empty beer bottle sliding from his hand, thunk on the floor. Gasping, sweating under the blanket he'd pulled over himself. _ Calm down, calm down._

Sportscenter on the television: "The Lakers won again tonight..."

Just a dream. Just a fucked-up dream. No little girl, and she's out there but she's still alive, she's with Dixon and she'll be fine. Just a dream. It's okay.

He rights the bottle, reaches back to the end table, picks up his _ Economist_. He'll read, now, try to stay occupied, awake.

He doesn't want to sleep again tonight. Does not want to risk revisiting that.


	8. 1x7: In History

Chapter 1.7 — In History

Tuesday, February 24, 2003

He arrives at work stiff, body aching, exhausted beyond the half-pot of coffee he's already downed. At least he is used to working like this, maybe even good at it.

No new messages. At the top of the last used page on the legal pad, scrawled out yesterday when he'd finished plowing through the operational files, his list of four maybes:

Jeffrey Black  
Carol Durham  
Frank Steward  
George Wolford

He double-clicks records, new query for everything directly related to Jeffrey Black. It returns with five hits and an error message: "Some references not available electronically."

Vaughn groans, although he expected this. Electronic filing of records has been mandated for less than a year; anything older usually exists in paper form only. Black is a 7-year veteran, which necessitates a trip to Records if he wants everything on the agent.

He'll go now, and take his list. All of his suspects have been in the Agency for at least a year, and they'll all need paper records pulled.

He takes the elevator to the basement. They moved everything here shortly before he left to work at the JTF full-time. There was some talk of having a small team of high-clearance secretaries work on converting everything to the new system, but that had died in budget cuts. Instead, it all went down here. There if anyone needs it, which is rare — old files are only for people doing jobs like his.

He swipes his access card, slaps his hand on the biometric scanner. It grows green around his fingers for a few seconds, then the massive steel door clunks open. He walks inside; this is the first time he's been down here since they moved everything.

The room is dizzyingly large — it runs the entire length of the building, with only support columns and row after row of wide beige filing cabinets to break up the space. The lights hum fluorescent, harsh off white cinder block walls, freshly painted, impossibly distant from where he stands. It feels like there must be many more files in here than the old Records room.

He walks toward the first row of cabinets. "A-Ae," printed on a small white card on the end of the row, like a library. He walks past rows two and three — still in the As. Four is "Ar-Ba," Five, "Bc-Bh." Six, finally, "Bi-Br."

It registers that Jeffrey Black should be down this aisle somewhere, but he finds himself drawn to "Br" instead.

Jack Bristow. Do you really, fully believe him? Trust him? This is your chance. Nobody's down here. Paper records. Nobody would know if you pulled his file.

He passes the "Bl-Bm" cabinet on his way. Pulls open the heavy door of "Br," scraping loud on its tracks. Each cabinet holds three levels of files, drawers four file folders wide, and deep. Still, it doesn't take long to find "Bristow." Top level, third set of folders over.

He thumbs through Sydney's file first; everything is in order, ending when he'd started filing his reports electronically. All those paper bags — every one she's ever dead dropped — in storage at a separate, larger facility, far outside the city. Rambaldi documents, computer disks and the like, too, although those are more heavily guarded.

He pinches the top of Jack's file with his fingers, slides it out. It is a good three inches thick, but still thinner than he remembers. He lays it down on the top of the file cabinet and opens to the last page, the list of references.

Everything in the primary cabinets is classified Alpha-10, the lowest clearance level the Agency has. Still enough to require security to get into the room, but far below his own clearance. According to the white laminate sign on the wall, he'll need to cross the basement, to separate sets of filing cabinets, each corresponding to clearance levels, and look up the file numbers referenced in the back of Jack's file.

With his new, higher historical security clearance, he will be able to see more of Jack's file than what he'd copied for Sydney so long ago. _Maybe there's something in there. What if there is?_

Vaughn picks up the folder and walks to the end of the aisle, crossing the basement along the cinder block wall. Omega-17, nearly in the back, inside one of several glass rooms. He presses his hand against another scanner, enters. The files are numbered, here, each cabinet requiring a swipe of his access card just to open it, and he begins the process of looking up every number on Jack's long list.

———

He returns to his office with a stack of file folders halfway up his chest. Sets them down on the floor beside his desk and pulls off the top one to read.

It is a classified SD-6 mission, dated just after he'd been assigned Sydney's case. He'd been aware of the mission, but hadn't known the details. He wasn't privy to a lot of details back then — a higher security clearance had come with his promotion to senior agent.

He skims the file, and the Omega-17 version of Jack Bristow looks a lot like the version he already knows. The next few files are similar, and he skims through the top half of the pile. Back before Vaughn joined the Agency, through operations he has never heard of. Back to the beginning of SD-6, the Alliance.

A file full of statements from that time. Pages of tiny, neat print.

Arvin has been acting increasingly agitated since Alain Christophe left the Agency. If rumors of this new Alliance are correct, I believe Christophe has asked Arvin to join.

•

Arvin Sloane approached me yesterday. He told me Alain Christophe had invited him to head one cell of the Alliance. He said he felt betrayed by the CIA, that he could achieve things in this new Alliance he would never reach in the Agency, and that he had accepted. Then he invited me to join him. I knew that for my acceptance to seem genuine, I would have to say yes on the spot, and I would not have the opportunity to ask for authorization to become a double agent. Based on what we know about the framework Christophe has set up, the Alliance has the potential to become a serious risk to national security. So I told Arvin yes.

•

I am aware that it has been more than six months since my last contact, and since I formally left this Agency. Since then, I have been watched closely. Arvin has already set up a large team of counterintelligence operatives — Security Section, this cell calls them — and they have been following me closely since I began. Thus far, Arvin and myself, plus several other higher-level agents (including Bob Walter, who I am sure you must already suspect has defected) and this Security Section are the only agents he has recruited. This will change soon. Arvin said the Alliance plans to recruit by making new hires believe they are working for black ops divisions of their home countries' intelligence forces. In our case, the CIA. There is more to tell, but I am running out of time. If I feel it is safe, I will attempt to make contact to set up a meet in the next week.

Back even further. Missions in the Soviet Union, Iran. Project Christmas, which gives him pause, but he picks through that file and finds there is nothing he didn't already know or suspect. Sydney's name is never mentioned.

More missions in the Soviet Union, and East Germany. Berlin, simple wiretap job, and half a page in, William Vaughn a member of the team.

It shocks him, although it shouldn't. His father and Jack were contemporaries; it would make sense that they worked together, or at least saw each other in the halls back at Langley. Stopped to chat about their kids and their wives, never knowing that Jack's wife would kill his father. That their children's paths would cross, years later.

He reads through the operational file, but the details are mundane, the mission easy and successful. The date just under two months before his father's death.

Vaughn picks up the next file. Berlin, again — they must have been there for awhile. This time just Jack and his father.

More files, more operations. Occasionally partners, often on the same team. And a few of those included Arvin Sloane. Moscow, Tehran, Leningrad, Kiev.

Jack and his father didn't just work together every once and awhile; it was nearly every high-level mission, for years. And Jack never once said anything. Why?

Perhaps because of Irina, what his wife did. But he could have said something, even just a mention in passing — by the way, I worked with your father.

There must have been so much he knew, but yet he said nothing.

Maybe he just doesn't like you. He certainly never thought you'd see this.

He runs his finger along the curved tab of the folder on his desk. Leipzig, snatch and grab. He recognizes it from his father's journal, but his father rarely mentioned other agents there. And never Jack, or Sloane.

You could read more of your father's file, too. All those references outside your clearance, they're open to you now.

But should you? He's dead. He's been dead for 26 years. You know who killed him. All you're going to find in his references are details on old missions, maybe more details on his death. Is that really something you need to see?

He has come a long way from the young recruit who waited only hours after he earned his security clearance and took his first opportunity to slip away to records, to read everything he could about his father. He's done so again, and again, throughout the years, every time his clearance was raised. Learning the truth, a truth he'd never expected, has dulled that curiosity.

But it is still there. He still needs to know. 

He stands and begins the journey back to Records. He locks his office door on the way.

———

His father's stack of references is substantial, but much shorter than Jack Bristow's. _Maybe if he'd lived —_

You can't go thinking that way. It's never been a good idea. Life only ever takes the path it takes.

Most of the files, like Jack's, are operational references. But there is one supplemental file on his death. Vaughn pauses before he opens it; Delta-15 came with pictures and details he hadn't been prepared for.

This file contains copies of those pictures, of the coroner's report, of the dental x-rays that had ultimately been used to identify him. None of these are new. In the back, though, a lengthy briefing paper implicating Irina Derevko in his death, explaining her relationship to Jack Bristow, her faked death.

Beyond that, initial briefings for the four days he'd been designated "missing." In that time, Derevko had questioned him, tortured him. Made him what appeared in those pictures.

He cringes, closes the file. Nothing he didn't already know, and not worth seeing all of that again.

On to the first operational file — his father's last mission before he'd gone missing, Leningrad, Jack absent from this one. Vaughn finds he's familiar with the mission — it is the last entry in his father's journal.

He reads back through the missions. He is familiar with some from the journals, and others he's already read at a lower clearance. Many of the Omega-17 cases match with Jack's.

Berlin, again, then Kiev, this time retrieval of computer code. This one in the journal, too. The mission had been difficult, he remembers — a Soviet storage facility, heavily guarded — and his father had been so happy that they'd succeeded. But here —

Agent Bristow and I were made shortly after entering the facility. We were unable to reach the target room and had a difficult escape. We exchanged shots with approximately eight guards. I believe we were lucky to escape with our lives.

Vaughn flips back through the files, rereading. It must be a different mission, although it sounds like the one in the journal. It has to be. Perhaps his memory is flawed; it has been a long time since he's read through the journals.

———

Several more possible discrepancies emerge as he works through the rest of his father's operational files. _You must have things mixed up. It's not like you have them memorized or anything._

"I was wondering when you'd get around to that."

Devlin, standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame.

Vaughn glances around his desk; fortunately, he'd placed Jack's files on the floor, out of sight from Devlin's vantage point.

"What?"

"Reading your father's Omega-17 material." Devlin walks inside, pulls the door closed behind him. Eases himself into one of the chairs in front of Vaughn's desk. "I thought of that as soon as your new assignment crossed my desk. The historical security clearance."

You've been caught. Shit. "Yeah."

"You don't have to be ashamed, Michael. I'd be concerned if you didn't." Devlin says. "He was good, your father."

"Did you work with him?" He doesn't remember encountering Devlin's name in the files, and certainly he would have noticed.

"Only occasionally, never on missions. We were in different departments. I knew him mostly by reputation."

"He did work a lot with Jack Bristow. I wasn't aware of that."

"I'm not surprised Jack didn't mention it to you. Those were strange times, back then, for the Agency. Church committee hearings, a lot of agents killed, by Derevko and others. A lot of agents who went to the Alliance not far down the road. I assume Arvin Sloane's name came up a few times?"

"Yeah."

"Yes, strange times." Devlin pauses. "Speaking of, how is Agent Bristow? Sydney, I mean."

"She's, um — she's good. On a mission right now."

"Ah." Devlin rises. "I have to ask, and this doesn't go beyond this room, but I want to know. Were the two of you involved while you were her handler?"

The question doesn't surprise Vaughn. If anything, he is surprised Devlin did not ask it earlier. "No. Absolutely not. We waited. Probably not as long as we should have, but we waited."

"I thought so." Devlin turns, begins to walk out. He stops with a hand on the doorknob and looks back at Vaughn. "I think you already know how I feel about how they handled this. We used to be a lot more intelligent here about our assignments. Hell, some of our best teams have been husband and wife."

———

He still has a key to his mother's house, a tiny white three-bedroom on a street full of them, but it has been a long time since he's felt comfortable walking in without knocking.

Her five-year-old Ford sits in the driveway, and she answers, as expected, gardening gloves clutched in her left hand.

"Michael? I didn't hear the phone. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Mom. I'm sorry I didn't call — I wanted to look through Dad's journals, if that's okay. I figured I'd just stop by."

"Of course." She smiles softly, steps inside. No mention of how long it's been since he just stopped by. "I've actually been planning on going through some of that attic, so I can go up there with you. Unless you want to be alone?"

"No. I'd appreciate the company."

He follows her inside, through the living room filled with furniture that has been there since he was a child. End tables and shelves filled with pictures, faux-gold frames.

Recent ones on the end tables. His high school and college graduations — similar poses, similar caps and gowns. Him, playing hockey, late teens. Trying to interest Donovan in a frisbee some Fourth of July not long after he'd graduated college. Her, standing with some of the staff at the hospital, and again with the women in her book club.

Old, yellowed shots on the shelves. His mother in a long lace wedding dress, standing in front of his father, his arms crossed over her stomach, both of them grinning, glowing. All of them, together, snapped by some stranger on the beach. Michael and Dad, playing catch in the long grass, not long before his father's death. Amidst all of them, barely faded in a triangular glass-and-wood case, his father's flag, white stars on blue facing out.

He lingers on the flag, as always, during the walk through the living room. Right turn and up the stairs. He steps in front of her when they reach the hallway, reaches up on tiptoes and pulls the cord down to release the panel in the ceiling. He rolls the ladder down, nearly to the floor, gestures to his mother to go first.

When she's pulled her legs clear of the opening, he climbs the ladder, steps up into a thick layer of dust on the unfinished wood floor. She has never been able to control that, or the thick cobwebs in the corners, but for the most part his mother has kept this place well-organized, nearly everything packaged into clear Rubbermaid containers, stacked along the walls and in clusters on the floor.

"I think I'm going to have a yard sale," she says, walking toward a stack of containers. "This is more junk than any old woman needs."

He leaves her, walking to the far corner — the one area not filled with plastic. Old trunks, here, the best of the ones she'd used to ship their possessions back to the United States. She saved them for the things of his father's she'd kept: clothing, books, postcards and letters, mostly. And in one of them, a stack of leather-bound journals, nested atop a pile of neatly folded old sweaters.

He opens that one and carefully lifts the stack, placing it on one of the other trunks and sitting down beside it. His mother has tried to give them to him many times before, but he's always said no — they belong here, with the rest of his father's things. And he's never been sure he wants them in his possession.

His mother has not read them. They were off-limits to her when William Vaughn was alive; he'd told her there were work-related things in there and she respected that, she's said, understood that he needed an outlet. Even after his death, she felt it would be betraying his trust, somehow, and she had been so angry the day she'd come up here and found Vaughn reading them. She spoke in a harsh whisper, and it was the most frightening thing he'd heard, at that point in his life:

"Go to your room. Now. And don't you ever touch those again. Ever. Michael, do you understand me?"

It took hours, it seemed, for her to come down the ladder, her steps tap-tap-tap outside his bedroom door, to walk into the room. She'd been crying in that time — he knew it instantly, and felt a war brewing inside. To know more about his father was to hurt his mother, and did he want one as badly as he hated the other?

"I'm sorry, Michael," she'd said, sitting on his bed. "I know you want to know more about him. But those journals — he asked me not to read them, and I haven't, even now. I suppose it's okay for you to read them. Maybe he would have wanted it."

He'd clambered up that ladder the next day and read them all the way through, something he's done again and again, over the years. But he has never wanted to move them. This is their place.

The light is decent, here, close to the lone dusty window. He starts with the last one, chronologically — what he remembered as Kiev should be in here. Flipping gingerly through brittle yellow pages to the entry dated Oct. 3, 1975. Kiev in the file was October 5.

We leave tomorrow for Kiev. I'm worried about this one...security is going to be so tight. The plan to get in looks good, but I feel like we haven't had time to draw it up right and really go over it. They won't even tell us what we're going in after. Weapons technology, was all they said. What the hell is that? If we're going to risk our lives, the least they could tell us is what it's for. But no, they'll just keep us in the dark, same as they always do.

And then Oct. 6, 1975:

We did it. I can't believe it. In and out like a walk in the park. We got the computer codes, a big old book of binary. I hope our guys will be able to figure it out and get whatever it is to run. They told us it has something to do with weapons technology. Maybe we'll be able to deactivate their nukes, or something like that. What a dream that would be. It would be so great to have this victory, and have it be big. I would feel so proud. I guess I do, already, just for getting it. I'm going to take the day off, Friday, to celebrate. I think I'll take Michael to the park.

He lays the book down open on the trunk, beside the stack.

You remembered better than you thought you did. What he said in there is the opposite of what it said in the op file. But what does it mean? Why would he lie about it?

It couldn't have been a lie. It must've been something else. There are a lot of sections where he writes out what he wants to say, to the Paris station chief, the CIA director. You know he never said those things. They would have reprimanded him, maybe even fired him. It would have shown up in his file. Those were just things he wanted to say. Maybe this was how he wanted the mission to go.

He picks up the journal and flips back to the beginning.

———

Click. The overhead bulb shining, his mother across the attic, releasing the cord.

"Thanks, Mom."

It is darker now, deep into twilight. He has lost track of time and place, something the journals always do to him. As a child, he would read and imagine the action, the exotic locales. What would New Delhi look like? Buenos Aires? Kiev? Now, he sees real locations, real details, his father running through the same city streets he has, a long way from this attic.

"I'm going to head down and heat up some dinner," his mother says. "Would you like some?"

"Yeah, I would. Just — I just need a minute."

"Take your time," she says. "Michael, are you sure you don't want to take those with you?"

"I think — yes, I would. If that's okay."

She studies him closely, as if she's looking for the reason for this turnabout after so many years. "Of course."

His mother starts down the ladder and Vaughn closes the last journal, picks up the stack in his arms. _After all this time, you finally take them because they're, what, evidence? Of what?_

He has read through almost all of them, now, and there are more discrepancies. And maybe they really were just his father describing how he'd wanted those missions to go. But there are other entries, for both successes and failures, that match up exactly with their case files.

What were you doing, Dad?

———

He is sitting on his couch at home, beer in hand, when Sydney calls.

"Hey. Sorry I didn't call earlier," she says. "I'm not going to make it back until tomorrow night."

"It's okay," he says, guilty, thinking of Jack's secret and the stack of journals on his end table, untouched since he got here. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine. We were just delayed. I miss you."

"I miss you too, Syd."

"How was your day?"

"It was okay," he says. "Long."

"Oh. How's your assignment going?"

"Better. I finally feel like I've got the hang of what I'm supposed to be doing."

"Good." She pauses. "Hey, Vaughn, I've got to get going. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. Call me when you get in."

"I will. Goodbye."

"Bye. Be safe, Syd."

He ends the call and readies himself for another night alone.


	9. 1x8: Exits

**AN: There are NC-17 portions of this chapter which cannot be posted at so a major segment has been cut. You can read the complete version via the link on my profile. **

****

1.8 — Exits

Wednesday, February 24, 2003

**Wednesday morning means a week on the job. It doesn't feel like it.**

**He walks in with a large box filling his arms. The things from his old office, gathered in the middle of the night after he'd spent too long awake on the couch. The journals, as well, stacked neatly on the bottom.**

**He moves around his office, placing the other things first. Excedrin in the desk drawer, pencil holder and clock on the desk, books and pictures on the bookshelves along the wall. His mother and Donovan — not Sydney, not yet. Maybe later, when he's a bit farther from the transfer, and he's actually got a picture of her.**

**And then the journals. He pulls them out, places the pile on the far corner of his desk. Sits and stares at them, tries to decide what to do. He could ask Jack Bristow if he remembers what really happened, but based on their last meeting, that's not likely to go well. Especially since Jack hasn't been forthcoming about working with his father.**

****

Be sure. You have to be absolutely sure before you even think about doing anything.

**He rolls the few feet to his filing cabinet, unlocks the top drawer and pulls out his father's files. He'd placed the ones he thought were off in front, last night, before returning Jack Bristow's to Records.**

**He opens files and journals side by side on his desk, double-checking. Kiev. Marseille. Barcelona. Turin. Helsinki. Odesa. All failures in the files and successes in his father's script.**

****

Something's off. But what do you do? That was nearly 30 years ago. Does anybody even care? Does this even prove anything? Would you want to prove anything, if it turns out —

No. He couldn't have been doing something wrong. Just because there were discrepancies, that doesn't mean something was going on. But it has to mean something.

You could take it to Devlin. He was around, back then. He might know if it even meant anything at all. He also might yell at you for not looking into more pressing, current matters. But he was fine with you looking through your father's files yesterday. He knows you put in your time and then some, same as everybody here.

This is important to you, if no one else. And you can trust his judgment. Just go.

**He gathers the files and journals, then begins the long walk to Devlin's office.**

**———**

**Director Devlin, the secretary informs him, is in a meeting, and will be for quite some time, so it's probably best to come back later. He declines her offer to schedule an appointment, returns to his office and considers his options.**

**He could check to see if there was a CI investigation into his father. It's the same thing he did for Jack, back when Sydney suspected him of working for the KGB. If there was anything wrong, they would have been investigating him.**

**He will have to go back down to Records to look for any CI files on his father, so he picks up the stack of folders; he'll return them while he's there.**

**Records is empty, again, and he works fast, returning his father's primary file and the references. He checks the CI files there, but there is nothing on his father.**

**It occurs to him in the elevator that any CI files on his father might be so old they would only be kept at Langley.**

**He makes that call when he returns to his office, on the secure line, reading his ID number and passcodes to the secretary in Central Records. She disappears, presumably into the bowels of Langley, for a good 10 minutes, and returns, telling him there's nothing. She does not mention how odd it is that Michael Vaughn is looking for a CI file on William Vaughn. He wonders if it will be logged somewhere and come back to haunt him later, thanks her and hangs up.**

**No CI file, and nothing out of the ordinary at all. And everyone who's ever known his father's work has said how good he was. _Whatever this was, it's just a couple weird discrepancies that you'll probably never be able to figure out. Even if you did, it wouldn't bring him back._**

**He puts the journals back into his lower desk drawer and locks it. It is time to get back to Munich.**

**———**

**His cell phone rings as he's reading through Ernest Durham's file and references. He answers on the second ring. Sydney.**

**"Hi," she says.**

**"Hi." _God I miss you_. "Where are you?"**

**"Heading into what will probably be a long and horrible debrief."**

**He laughs, relieved. _She's home, she's safe._ "Did everything go okay?"**

**"Yeah. I'm going to be here for a few hours, at least, but do you want to come over after work?"**

**"Absolutely. Any particular time?"**

**"How about as soon as you possibly can."**

**"That sounds really good."**

**He imagines her smile.**

**———**

**He slips out of work half an hour early, still long after she'd called and said her debrief was done. He'd made it through the files and references of all of his agents and decided that was enough for today. Tomorrow he will sit down and start to make sense of all of it.**

**His secret — Jack's secret, really, he must think of it as Jack's secret and not his own, not his to tell — stabs at him as he walks up to her door. But it's nothing. Not even his business, really, just Jack's doubts. If he'd found out he wasn't her father, then it would be a secret. This is just — something else.**

**He knocks on the door, restless, agitated, pulse a little too quick. It takes her awhile to answer. Bathrobe, bare feet. Her lips pink, hair wet from the bath; she smells faintly of lavender. It has been far too long since he's seen her.**

**"I'm sorry, Syd, did I interrupt your bath?"**

**"Don't worry about it. I was turning into a prune, anyway."**

**He reaches out, picks up one of her hands, and she's right, her fingers are a bit wrinkled. "You weren't kidding."**

**She smiles, grasps his hand. "Come in," pulling him inside with her.**

**The apartment bears the signs of her partial afternoon off. Suitcase next to the door, computer on the kitchen counter, stack of books and papers next to it. Someone — her or Francie, he is not sure — has placed daisies in the vase on the counter. The apartment smells smoky; she's just blown out candles.**

**"The mission with Dixon, everything went well?"**

**"Yeah."**

**"I'm glad he's out there with you, Syd." _If I can't be._**

**A sudden pang of jealousy. Everyone else still gets to work with her, spend all that time with her. Dixon, Weiss, Jack, even Marshall. Sitting with her in the office, beside her on the plane, joking over comms during the safer moments of her missions, knowing when she emerges, unharmed, when her task is done.**

**"Me too," she says. "It's good to work with him again, and I think — I feel like things are getting better between us."**

**"Good." He squeezes her hand.**

**"We still miss you, Vaughn." Her voice low, her eyes upset. "I'm really sorry it has to be this way."**

**_Now is when you have to ignore everything, push all the jealousy and worry and guilt out of the way. You're with her, now, and that's it, that's really all that matters._**

**"It's okay, Syd. We'll get past it."**

**"Yeah," she whispers, nodding fiercely, like she's attempting to convince both of them.**

**He reaches out with his free hand, trails his fingers along her jaw. Leans in to kiss her, soft and slow, reassuring. She steps closer, releases his hand and snakes hers up his neck, fingers through his hair. Mouth open to his, hot and wet.**

****

You're with her now, and that's why everything else is worth it. A month ago, you would have given anything for this.

**Her robe is thin, white terry cloth, tied loosely around her waist. So thin, he can feel her nipples through the fabric, her fingertips tight at his back, struggling for a grip on his suit jacket. He feels loose, liquid, some odd combination of relief and arousal.**

**———**

**He wakes to late twilight, street light shining in through the window. Disoriented for a moment, until he realizes he is lying in a bed — Sydney's bed with the good soft sheets — naked.**

**Eyes open fully, he sees her, lying on her side, staring back at him, wide awake. A good foot of bed between them, his head nowhere near the pillow.**

**"Hi," she says. A soft smile.**

**"Hi." Smiling back. "I don't even remember falling asleep."**

**"You looked pretty exhausted." She reaches out, traces his jawline with gentle fingers.**

**"You could have woke me, Syd. I haven't seen you for two days and I'm falling asleep on you."**

**"It's okay. I was tired, too. I just woke up a little while ago," she says. "And the part before the sleeping more than made up for it."**

**She's being kind; of all the times they've been together, that was surely the fastest and least spectacular.**

**"Are you hungry? Maybe we could go get a late dinner."**

**"Starving." She leans in after her hand, kisses him, lips only. Tosses the sheets halfway down the bed and stands.**

**He takes a moment to stare at her, pale, perfect curves in the faint light, then swings his legs over to the side of the bed, begins the search for his clothes. He finds most of them amongst the pillows on the floor, considers asking if he can borrow her iron. But she is already half-dressed, faded jeans and about to pull a sweater over her head. He decides the wrinkles will shake out.**

**They walk out into the hallway together — still no sign of Will and Francie. "Where do you want to — "**

**He is interrupted by her cell phone, ringing on the kitchen counter. "Sorry," she says, rushing past him. She glances down at the display before answering. "You have got to be kidding me," and then, "Yes?"**

**A brief pause as she listens. "No. Absolutely not. I just got back. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow." Another pause. "I'll be right in." She presses end and tucks the phone into her jeans pocket.**

**"Another mission?"**

**She nods. "Vaughn, I am so sorry."**

**"Sounds important." His throat tight. _Not again. Not so soon._ "You go."**

**She walks to her laptop, slaps it shut and pulls the power cord. Grabs computer, books, papers and crams them into her bag. Rushes over to her suitcase, pulls it back upright and sets the computer bag on the floor beside it.**

**Car door slamming in the driveway, Will and Francie.**

**Sydney walks back over to him, lays her hand on his arm and leans in, kisses him long and slow.**

**"If this goes well, maybe it will calm down," she whispers. "It's not very far this time. I might be back tomorrow. I'll call and let you know."**

**"Okay."**

**The front door flies open and Will and Francie enter, close together, laughing. Sydney picks up her purse from the kitchen counter, and he follows her to the front door, stopping to pick up the suitcase in one hand, computer in the other.**

**"Are you leaving again?" Francie asks. "Didn't you just get back?"**

**"Yeah," Sydney says. "We didn't quite finish up what we thought we did."**

**"That sucks. Where are you going? New York, still?"**

**"Yeah, New York," Sydney fumbles through her purse, pulls out her car keys. "Hey, guys, I'm sorry, but I've got to get going or I'm going to miss my plane. I'll see you later."**

**They walk together to her Land Rover and he places the luggage in the back seat, turns to face her. "Be safe, Syd, okay?"**

**"Yeah."**

**"Good luck," he says, stepping back. She slides in closes the door.**

**He stands there, watches her drive away. Off to her world, off to Dixon, Jack, Marshall and Weiss, all chasing Sloane without him. All their secrets and hasty exits and missions he doesn't know about, missions that could kill her.**

**The only way this is worth it, he thinks, is if it's over soon.**


	10. 1x9: Absent

Chapter 1.9 — Absent

Thursday, February 25, 2003

He floats through morning routine, headache and hazy on the drive over, his only sleep that few hours beside Sydney the evening before. Quiet hello to the pool secretary when he gets off the elevator, computer out of standby, passwords in, no new messages.

Initial report due tomorrow. He'll work on nothing but the station mole today; he will not open that bottom drawer, will not take out the journals, will not get caught up in tangents with files three decades old. He will make up all of that wasted time. _And maybe, somehow, if you make some progress on Munich and SD-2, it will help Sydney find Arvin Sloane —_

Sloane. Shit. He was CIA — he's got a file too. Why haven't you pulled his?

He stands, chair rolling back behind him, spinning, and starts the journey downstairs. He has read portions of Sloane's file, but always as part of the numerous psychological profiles on Sloane to come out of Analysis. He'd read through them all when he'd started on the SD-6 case; most painted Sloane as cold, calculating, level. They focused on the years after he'd left the Agency.

The elevator ride seems to take longer than normal, packed full and stops on almost every floor. He looks at his watch, 7:56 — he's put himself right in the middle of morning rush. He stands in the corner and wills the crowded silver box to get to "B" faster.

The basement is empty, as usual. He walks down to the other end of the room, "Sk-Sm," and finds the file easily, although it's towards the back. Pulls it out — thinner than he expected — and flips it open on the top of the filing cabinet, not sure of what he'll actually find. The answers to the discrepancies in his father's file, perhaps. Or maybe the answers to something else, something Sydney needs, something that could bring her back, keep her safe, keep her home.

He skims the body of the file, the basic stuff — date of birth, date of recruitment, social security number, stations worked under, declassified operations. One mention of his father's name, and he thinks about his father and Sloane, working together back then. What did his father think of Sloane? Was it obvious Sloane was evil? Could he tell the man was going to ruin so many lives, including Sydney's?

He flips back to the references. The list here is long, and he snaps the file shut, takes it over to the Omega-17 section.

Hand, card, in. The first reference on his list is O17-135-8258. He swipes his card through the black box on the top of the cabinet for 130-140, hears the lock click. Slides the door open, pages through the files. O17-135-8255. O17-135-8256. O17-135-8257. O17-135-8259. O17-135-8260.

He flips back through them again — he must have missed it. But no, 8258 isn't there. He checks the rest of the row, and then the rest of the cabinet. Nothing. _Not a good sign, here._

Second reference, O17-136-9923. Missing, as are three and four. Finally, on five, O17-137-2212, he finds a file on an innocuous meeting with a Middle East firearms dealer. Six, seven, eight, missing.

In all, he finds only two of 31 references and must have flipped through almost all of the high-level reference files from the 1970s. _Not good at all._

He takes the stairs back to his office, two at a time.

———

In his office, the door locked, he sits at his desk and picks up the phone. Secure line to Langley.

The woman in Central Records answers at a half-ring. Her voice is raspy — sore throat, February in D.C. He gives her his ID and passcodes, tells her he needs to pull the originals of some case references missing here in Los Angeles.

"Read them off," she says.

He does, clear and loud. It takes a few minutes to get through them all.

"That many, really?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Okay," in a tone that says she's doubting his ability to work a file cabinet. "This'll take awhile."

It does. Twenty minutes, during which he attempts the beginnings of his report on Station Munich and barely makes it through the first paragraph, phone still cradled on his shoulder, his neck growing sore.

"Hello? You there?"

"Yes," he says.

"There's nothing. I can't believe it. I triple-checked all of them. Nothing there. You're sure those are valid reference numbers?"

"I read them straight off the file," he says..

"I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you. If they're not at a branch and they're not here, they've got to be lost."

"Thanks for looking. Bye." He hangs up.

Shit. Most of Arvin Sloane's history in this place is gone. How could all of that just go missing? Why? What was he hiding? What was happening back then?

And does this have anything to do with Dad?

He double-clicks secure messaging. New message: Devlin, Arthur.

Sir,

I was going through some more of the older files and noticed that almost all of the references are missing from Arvin Sloane's file. I was only able to find two, out of 31. I called Central Records and they're missing there, as well. Don't you think that's odd?

He backspaces through the question.

That seems odd to me. Do you know anything about references going missing?

Michael

Back to the Station Munich report, those files fanned out on his left-hand side. Sloane's on the right, next to the phone. Of the four agents he's been focusing on, Black and Wolford seem to have the most red flags. He will concentrate on them, mention the other two. Maybe suggest that he go out to interview Black and Wolford, hope his trip isn't timed so that Sydney is home while he's gone. _That would be your luck, lately._

Beep from the computer, new message. A double-click on the reply:

Michael, you have to remember that Alain Christophe was head of Counterintelligence here for almost five years. We're fairly certain that at least during his last few months, and perhaps as much as his last year, he was planning to defect to form the Alliance. He made a real mess out of our older records before he left, so I'm not surprised that Arvin Sloane's are lost. This came up before, actually, but our concern was more on what Sloane was doing at the time of his defection, not anything prior to that. Unless you need the references for your investigation into Station Munich, I wouldn't look into it too much.

Art

Work on Station Munich, then. Devlin is already cutting him a lot of slack, and it's best not to push it any further.

He closes Sloane's case file and pushes it to the far corner of his desk.

———

Through his apartment door a little after nine, his Munich report finished and sent to Devlin. He drops keys and briefcase on the floor, and wonders if maybe he's actually tired enough to sleep tonight, even though he hasn't heard from Sydney.

She said she might be back, not that she would be.

Upstairs, he pulls off jacket, tie, shirt, pants, hangs them haphazard in the closet. Sweatpants and a T-shirt, then back downstairs. Bud Light from the fridge, second-to-last beer, left over from Saturday with Weiss. Those two beers and maybe he really will sleep.

He walks into the living room, sits down on the couch and dully clicks on the remote. TV still on ESPN, and he leaves it there, sits and scrapes at the condensation on the bottle with his thumbnail.

Where is she now? What is she doing? Anything that urgent has to be big.

Just because you were hoping everything would go good and quick and she'd be back by now doesn't mean anything went wrong. Things get delayed. You know that. Too bad you don't have a clue what the fuck she's doing out there. That might make it easier to gauge.

He glances at his cell phone, sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Feels the urge to call her, but he knows she's probably either busy or on a plane right now. _She'll call you when she gets back._

If she gets back. If she isn't injured, or dead, she'll call you. She could be dead right now and you wouldn't have a fucking clue.

Somebody caught her, somebody shot her.

Stop it. She's fine. Every time you worry and every time she's fine.

He stares down into the bottle and wonders how much more of this he can take. _Is this worth it? Is it really? It's been days since you've slept properly. And you've been with your alleged girlfriend maybe five hours in that time. A quick fuck before she jets off somewhere else, that's all you were yesterday._

You saw more of her when you were meeting in warehouses and bloodmobiles and convenience stores. Back when you knew everything about her case, about her life.

He asks himself if he would go back to that, if he could.

For the first time, he isn't sure.

———

Knock, knock.

Door? He wakes, groggy, to 3:35 a.m. on his watch, CNN on the television. He'd switched to that around midnight, can't remember much after that.

Knock, knock, knock. 

Oh god it is the door and that's how they tell you, they knock on your door and say she's dead and they're so sorry for your loss. Somebody caught her, somebody shot her. We're so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vaughn. It'll be Weiss and he'll say Mike but oh my god I can't do this —

He stands, walks over to the front door, wide awake. One hand shaking around the knob, the other on the deadbolt, peering through the security hole.

Sydney.

It's okay. She's okay, she's safe.

She's still on your doorstep in the middle of the night. He turns the deadbolt and then the knob, fast as he can, swings the door open.

Oh god. She is trying to fight it, chin trembling, lip between her teeth, but her cheeks are already shining wet in the streetlight.

"God, Syd, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Can I come in?" A small, hoarse voice.

"Of course. Come on." He reaches through the doorway to put his hand on her back, ushers her inside. Her suitcase, purse, computer bag sitting there on the porch; he drags them into the foyer, closes the door, turns the deadbolt. Looks at her, standing there watching him, pretty face puffy and wet and devastated, not so pretty now.

"Here." His hand on her arm, leading her to the living room, the couch.

She turns into him immediately, pulls him close, painfully close, her hands at his back, making tight fists around his shirt. He is startled, more tentative with the embrace, but wraps his arms around her until he is holding her equally tight — it must be what she wants, to be as close as possible, her chest heaving against his, loud gasping sobs. _Whatever it is, it's horrible._

"Easy, Syd." Stroking her hair at the base of her neck, waiting, wanting desperately to know what could have caused this, but fearing it, too.

It takes her awhile, but her hands loosen at his back, her sobs shift to quiet gasps and then deep, shaky breaths. She pulls away, just a bit, her face right in front of his.

"Syd, what happened?" A whisper. _Talk to me, please. I can't — you can't come in here and do this and not tell me why._

"Our team was ambushed." She wipes at her cheeks with the back of one hand. "Two men were killed. Dixon — he's going to live, but he was shot in the leg. It shattered the bone. We had to carry him out of there, me and Weiss."

"Weiss? Is he — " _You never thought about Eric. God, it could be him._

"He's fine, Vaughn. It was Reynolds and Watson."

Watson. Shit. You knew him. Junior agent, nice guy. Reynolds was probably your replacement.

Her mouth quivering. "Vaughn, I watched them die. It was — it was horrible."

He pulls her close again, and she turns her head to lay her cheek against his shoulder. Murmuring, "easy, easy, easy," into her ear.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," she says. "I just wanted to be with you."

"Syd, you know you never have to apologize."

She nods, and he holds her in silence. _You were so close to losing her. It could have been her killed instead of them, easily._

She shifts against his chest eventually, pulls away. "Is it okay if I stay here tonight?"

"Of course."

He starts to stand, arm around her waist, waits for her to follow. Leads her past the front door to collect her suitcase in his free hand, then up the stairs. It occurs to him that this is the first time she's been in his apartment, and he hadn't wanted it to be anything like this, for these reasons. Into the bedroom, her suitcase flat on the floor by the closet.

"Do you need anything?" he asks. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"I'm not really hungry — maybe a glass of water?"

"Sure." He touches her arm, turns, runs down the stairs to the kitchen. Returns with a glass from the Brita pitcher in his fridge. Stops, frozen, in the doorway.

She is standing, topless, in front of the mirror to his dresser. Fingertips trailing along her ribcage, inspecting one of three circular bruises on her torso. He recognizes them instantly.

"You were hit."

She whips her head around to face him, her hair swinging behind. "Yeah. I was wearing a vest."

The vest saved her life. You did almost lose her. You came so close, and you didn't even know until she showed up at your door.

"Syd, I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"It's not your fault, Vaughn." She walks over to the bed, picks up the tank top she's laid out on the bedspread, pulls it over her head.

"I don't care whose fault it was. I should have been there."

He sets the water glass down on the left nightstand; her side, from what they've established at her place. Walks around to the other side, pulls down the covers and climbs in — the first time he's been in his own bed in days. He waits as she drains half the water, slips under the covers on the other side. Her face still drawn, plaintive, as she moves over to his side of the bed, lays her head on his shoulder, drapes an arm across his chest.

"I wouldn't wish for anyone to be there for that, Vaughn, especially you," she whispers. "But I do wish we had you back."

And then silence.

She's emotionally, physically worn out, and it will not take her long to fall asleep. He will not be so lucky, even with her here, and safe.

She's never going to be safe, not really, and it's only a matter of time before she's the one that gets killed, before the vest isn't enough to save her.

Would it really be any better if you were out there with her? If you'd planned it? If you were involved, somehow? Maybe not, but at least you'd have some semblance of control over things.

At least you'd know.


	11. 1x10: Goodbye, status quo

Chapter 1.10 — Goodbye, status quo

Friday, February 26, 2003

He wakes before her, covers twisted around his ankles, not sure if this was his doing or hers. She's moved away from him, sleeping soundly on her stomach on the other side of the bed. He watches for a moment, then slips out of bed, pads around to her side, pulls the crumpled sheet and blanket back up over her.

He walks down to the kitchen, starts a pot of coffee and tries to estimate how many hours of sleep he managed. The coffee maker just beginning to gurgle when his cell phone rings, and it takes him awhile to remember where he'd left it last night. Living room, end table.

Weiss. "Hey, Mike."

"Hey." He sits on the couch, avoids the urge to put his feet up on the coffee table.

"You talk to Sydney yet?"

"Yeah. She spent the night over here."

"Good." Weiss pauses. "It was bad, Mike. Really bad."

He nods as if Weiss can see him. "She told me."

"We needed you on this, Mike. I don't know if it'll go anywhere, but I'm going to request that you be transferred back. Reynolds, he's — he was a good agent, but he wasn't the planner you are. None of us are."

That's exactly what you were afraid of. "Eric — look, I appreciate it, but do you really think Kendall's going to budge? He just transferred me."

"Yeah, and now he's got three openings, because Dixon's not going to be up and at 'em for a long time. And it's gonna be more than three openings, at the rate we're going, unless we get you and your fine-tooth comb back in here. He's a fool if he doesn't see that."

"I — you know I want to come back. If you can swing this — "

"You'll owe me big time? Yeah," Weiss says. "You know I'm not just doing it for you, though."

"Yeah."

"Look, Mike, I'm pulling into the garage now. I'm going to try to corner Kendall first thing, so I'll let you know how it went."

"Okay. Thank you."

He ends the call, rises to find Sydney standing in the doorway between kitchen and living room, coffee mug in her hand. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. That was Weiss."

"Oh."

He walks up to her, lays a hand on her shoulder. "Syd, how are you feeling?"

"Better, I guess. But that's relative."

"Do you have to go in today?"

"No, unless something comes up. I did my debrief last night. I'm going to go try to visit Dixon, though. They were going to fly him back this morning, once they got his leg stabilized."

"I'll take a personal day, then, and go with you."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to. Just let me call Devlin's office and leave a message."

He takes a step away from her to make the call, surprised when Devlin himself answers the phone. Checks his watch — just a few minutes after seven.

"Hello, sir. Sorry to interrupt. I was just calling to say I'm going to take a personal day today."

"Tokyo?"

"Excuse me?"

"Agent Bristow was on the Tokyo operation. I assume that's why you'd like the personal day?"

"Yes. I'm sorry — I didn't know that's where it was."

"Ah. Michael, I'd like to give you the day, but I want you on the investigation of that mission. The manner in which it was blown suggests that there may be a mole in the JTF or the Agency. They wanted someone from Langley to do it, which was crazy, with you sitting out here with your background. I told the Director so and he agreed with me. So you're on this case."

"Oh." He looks to Sydney, shakes his head no. _It's okay,_ she mouths. "I guess I'll be in as soon as I can, then."

"Good. Michael, I don't think I have to tell you this, but this could be your ticket out of CI, if you do it right. They'd like you to start with Dixon — there's some suspicion given the timing of everything and the fact that he just came from SD-6 that he may be a plant. Beyond that, the investigation is up to your discretion."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Goodbye." Devlin hangs up.

He looks to Sydney, steps back close to her. "I'm sorry, Syd. They want me to work on the investigation of your mission."

"It's okay, Vaughn, really," she says. "They suspect a mole, don't they? That's why they want you on it. And they think it's Dixon."

"Yes."

"That's where they were aiming a lot of their questions at debrief. Vaughn, I know it wasn't him. I've known him for seven years."

"I know Syd, but look — we probably shouldn't be talking about this."

"What, so I won't bias you? Vaughn, you've heard me talk about Dixon for two years."

"I know. I just want to go into this as fresh as possible. I'm sure the evidence will speak for itself." He smiles, tries to make it reassuring. "I'm going to go upstairs and get ready. You'll be okay?"

She nods.

"I am sorry I can't be with you today, Syd, but I want this to go well. If there's a mole — if there's someone putting you in danger — I want to find him."

"I know." She reaches out, pulls him into a hug, a short, soft kiss.

"Call me if you need anything, or if you want to talk. You can stay here as long as you like."

"Okay."

He turns to head up the stairs, checks his watch. 7:10. If he hurries, he can be out the door by 7:30, in the office well before eight. _And then you're going to find yourself a mole, and maybe, somehow, that will fix everything._

———

As he'd promised Devlin, he starts with Dixon's file first, pulled from the electronic database and printed. It begins with his statement, long and raw. Followed by a transcript of his interrogation, statements on his innocence from Jack and Sydney, then a few of Dixon's own reports on the missions he'd done as Sydney's partner.

He skims them all and then starts reading the statement. It moves logically, chronologically, from Dixon's recruitment through his career in SD-6. Dixon works step-by-step through the recruitment process, second-guessing himself at every opportunity. _I should have seen _and_ I should have known, how could I have not noticed?_

It feels odd to see Dixon, who Vaughn has only known as a skilled, veteran agent, describe himself as a green recruit, on the same simple wiretap missions and gofer assignments Vaughn performed in his first year.

But the first real shock comes about three years into Dixon's time at SD-6, when he'd had a partner die — shot, no chance of survival — on a mission. He's never heard Sydney mention it, wonders if she even knows. That incident had set Dixon back — two months off of active duty, and then simpler missions when he returned.

Dixon recovered, as did his career. His first mention of Sydney is reluctant; she'd been a new recruit assigned to work a relatively simple operation in Paris with him. But Dixon hadn't wanted to be "saddled with someone so inexperienced." _Or maybe he didn't want to see another partner die._ His opinion of her changed after the mission, impressed by her talent.

On through, and the missions begin to look familiar, until he's reading about Sydney's confession and the raid on SD-6 from Dixon's point of view.

It really killed him that she knew and didn't tell him. Such an impossible secret.

———

Devlin walks in with a stack of files as he's finishing his notes on Dixon, planning now to move on to the other members of the team. Weiss, Jack and Sydney last — Weiss because they have been friends since Weiss joined the Agency, Jack because he's just been through his file, and Sydney because he already knows her file in its entirety.

"Michael, they've cleared you to read the operational files and listen to the comm audio for the mission." Devlin sets the files down near one corner of Vaughn's desk. "These are copies of the files. They'll send someone over with the tapes shortly."

"Thank you, sir," Vaughn says. "I've been through all of the files we have on Dixon. There's nothing amiss, that I can see."

"Okay. Make sure you note that in your report."

Devlin walks out, and he begins on the other agents' profiles, longing to look through the operational files. _First things first. You want to know these people before you learn what happened. Even if you already know most of them._

———

The agent assigned to bring him the audio, it turns out, is Weiss, who arrives shortly after Vaughn eats lunch — carryout, from the deli across the street — at his desk.

"Special delivery," he announces from the doorway.

"Hey. Those are my tapes?"

"Yeah. Well, actually, your CD, but same basic thing."

"Good. I'm almost done with these profiles."

Weiss walks up to his desk, CD-R, slim jewel case in hand. "You have to read Sydney's file? Don't you have that whole damn thing memorized?"

"No, but close enough. I wanted to be fair and go through everyone."

"Please tell me you're skimming, at least."

"Yes."

"Good, because let's face it, if Sydney's the mole and you haven't figured it out by now, we're all screwed," Weiss says. "Listen, I tried to find Kendall this morning, but he's been pretty scarce. When I do, you'll be the first to know."

"Thanks."

"Hey, I'm going to go say hi to a few people, but I'll stop back if you have any questions on the audio or anything."

Weiss starts to walk out, but turns around in the doorway. "You read my file, didn't you?"

"Yes, I read your file. Get out of here."

He glances through Sydney's file, mostly looking for anything new, anything he hadn't been aware of. There is nothing. _Not like you expected there to be anything. It would make no sense, beyond the fact that you trust her, and she's earned that trust._

He sets her file on the top of his completed pile and opens the top one off the stack Devlin left. Mission plan and specifications — what he would have put together, if he'd still been there. He opens the file and begins to read.

The operation, according to the front-page summary, was based on records they'd found deep in the Alliance computer network. While the JTF had known for some time that each Alliance member was implanted with a microchip, these files were the first indication they'd seen of GPS capabilities in the chips.

With GPS, they would be able to pinpoint the location of every Alliance member that had escaped, including Arvin Sloane. The chips were developed at a Tokyo research firm with Alliance ties, and the JTF planned a raid on that firm, with the hopes of finding design plans for the chips, perhaps even software that would allow them to access the GPS functionality.

Damn. No wonder it was so urgent. That would have gone a long way toward cleaning up what's left of the Alliance.

He reads on, into the details.

———

Weiss interrupts his focus some time later. "Hey, how we doing in here?"

"Good. I do have a question, though."

Weiss approaches his desk again, grabs one of the chairs and spins it around, sitting with his chest leaning against the back. "Okay, shoot."

"Marshall hacked the security system in the facility, right?"

"Yeah. He was supposed to try to loop the feed on the video cameras there, and direct a live feed back here so we could see what was going on, but it was only a fifty-fifty shot that it would work, and it didn't, so he had to just turn off the cameras."

"Why didn't they use the motion detectors?"

"What?"

"There's an older system listed in the site report, a motion detector network that was installed 12 years ago. It looks like it's still operational, in the schematics."

"I don't think anyone checked into that."

"They should have. We used something like that before, with Sydney. She was supposed to do a brush pass with one of our guys, but we were afraid Dixon was going to catch up with her. There was no camera in the hallway outside the room where they were doing the pass, but there was a motion detector. You hack it so that their security people don't see any motion, but you're still able to use it to know if anyone's moving around, and where they're moving, if there's a whole network."

"Son of a bitch." Weiss slaps his palm down on the edge of the desk. "You saw we couldn't get a satellite with infrared tasked over Tokyo during our time window, but that — "

"Would have at least given you some sort of warning."

"And a way to get out. Part of our problem was we got trapped. No good exits. We could have seen where they weren't," Weiss says. "This is why we need you back, Mike. I haven't been able to find Kendall yet, but I'll make sure I tell him about this. He can't ignore that."

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"Yeah, but it's worth a shot. You got any more questions?"

"Not yet."

"Okay, then I'm going to head back and give Kendall hell." Weiss rises.

"Good luck."

"You too."

———

He has to go to the supply closet for a pair of headphones before he can listen to the audio, not comfortable with broadcasting it, even with the door to his office closed.

The cord isn't long enough, and it requires some maneuvering of his computer before he can sit comfortably enough to read the files as he listens. Everything set, he opens his CD drive and places the disk in the tray.

The audio loading, some static, and then —

"Base ops, this is Mountaineer." A voice from his past, a flash of anger — at Kendall, at everything. "We are approaching the facility. Looks clear."

"We've disabled security." Kendall himself running comms. "Enter when ready."

"Copy that. Approaching the east entrance." Strange, to hear her like this now; it has only been a few weeks since he's sat back in L.A. with the headset on and listened, and worried. But it feels like much longer. _This is what you wanted, anyway, to be involved, to know what's going on. You're going to hear it, now. Hear it all, although it's too late to make a difference, at least in this op._

"Inside the east entrance," Sydney says. "All clear. Heading toward Lab C."

"Copy that." Kendall, and then a period of silence. Vaughn checks the files, reads that they moved, uninterrupted, up one set of stairs and into a hallway sided by Labs A through D. Past security and into Lab C with a new Marshall-designed device.

"We're in." Weiss, this time. A few seconds of static, and then, "Are we sure this is the right room? There's nothing in here. I mean, it's damn near empty."

"Search the other labs, then," Kendall says.

Silent comms. He imagines Sydney, or Weiss maybe, using hand signals to direct searching of the other labs. They split up into teams of two, a lab for each.

He tenses, waiting for the beginning of the ambush. But everything was clear when they emerged from the lab, he reads.

"There's nothing in any of the labs," Sydney says.

"Okay." A pause from Kendall. "There's a large space in the basement — looks like maybe storage. Check down there."

"Copy that," Sydney says. "Heading to the basement."

Down two flights of stairs, then, and through another door with Marshall's device. The room they'd entered was large, he reads, filled with filing cabinets and storage containers. In his mind, it looks much like the Records room he's spent so much time in over the past week. They'd started searching and —

Gunshots over the audio. Tat. Tat. Tat. Kendall asks what the hell is going on out there.

"Shit!" Weiss. "We're under fire."

More shots. By now they must be returning fire. But not Reynolds, who'd been killed instantly — shot in the head, only a few cabinets away from Sydney. Sydney herself hit three times, one for each bruise. _And she could have been Reynolds. You were so close to losing her, and you didn't even know it._

The attackers had surprise on their side, but there were only four in the first wave. After the team recovered, they'd killed three and assumed the fourth retreated.

The gunfire thins and then stops.

"We've gotta get out of here," Weiss says. "Blackjack's here with me. Slingshot, you copy?"

"Yes."

"Mojave?"

"Yes."

"Atlantis?"

Silence.

"Damn it. Mountaineer?"

Silence, again. His stomach lurches instinctively, even though he knows she's alive.

"Shit. Shit. _Shit._ Okay, people. We've got two agents down. Here's what we're going to do — fan out, move through the aisles as quick as you can, see if you can find them, get a status on them. Then we're gonna take the west exit. Base ops, we need immediate extraction, west exit."

The gunmen came through the east exit. Weiss had guessed, not knowing if there were other men, or where they were.

"Mountaineer, Atlantis, do you copy?" Weiss asks. He is running now, breathing hard, probably hoping he doesn't have to tell Vaughn she's dead.

"I'm here." Sydney, gasping. He visualizes her pushing herself up off of the floor, pale and pained. _Did she fall facing Reynolds? Did she have to get up and look at him with his brains blown out?_ "Atlantis is dead."

"Damn it. Are you hurt? You need help?"

"I was — it hit my vest." Her voice wavering. "I'm fine. I can walk."

"Okay, Syd. We're going to head to the west exit."

They'd all come together at the exit, Sydney the last to arrive. Then run up another set of stairs, out into a large open room. Been nearly to the door outside, but —

More gunshots. Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Another team of gunmen from a side hallway, he reads. Dixon hit, Watson killed, another shot to the head.

"Dixon!" Sydney screams. He knows her face — the panic, the fear.

"Grab him and go!" Weiss shouts. "Cover us!"

Sydney and Weiss had picked Dixon up, and under cover from Lee made their way out the door, to the waiting helicopter.

Chopper blades and more gunfire. "Come on!" Weiss.

At some point, Lee hit twice in the vest. Weiss pulled him up onto the helicopter, and they lifted off to the sound of bullets pinging off the sides.

The audio cuts off abruptly. Vaughn slides the headphones from his head, lays them on top of the file. Head in his hand, he sits and tries to collect himself, exhales, long and shaky.

Weiss is right. It was bad. As bad as anything you've imagined. Men dropping in front of her, and you nearly lost her. And all for fucking motion detectors. It could have gone differently. They might have all lived. She might not have had to see that. You might not have had to listen to Weiss call her name and not get an answer.

Sometimes missions go bad, and you know that, but the outcome could have been different. This is something you could have caught. This was where she needed you, and you weren't there.

He pushes the headphones aside and starts on the rest of the file.

How can you go home and watch her head off on another mission, knowing it might go just like this?

Or worse.

———

He is reading Lee's statement on the mission when Weiss calls. He will save Sydney's for last this time, not sure he can handle reading it.

"Hey, Mike, I talked to Kendall. He's not budging. I mentioned the motion detector thing — he said it was easy to say after the fact. Which is bullshit, I know. But he said as long as you two are in a relationship, you will continue to work in separate departments."

"What if — "

Could you do it? Could you really do it? And would it be right? _You can't not do it, now, can you?_ _Not after hearing all that. Not when you know what happened out there._

" — what if we weren't in a relationship?"

Weiss is silent, must be shocked. Vaughn is a bit shocked himself; it is one thing to think it, another to say it, to actually go forward.

"You're serious, aren't you? You've got to be serious. There's no way you'd joke around about this."

"Yes, I am serious." He pauses. "I can't keep doing this, Eric. Knowing she's out there and doing that and I don't have any part of it — it's driving me insane. I think maybe I've known for awhile that what I did as her handler was more important than what I do as her boyfriend, no matter how much I want that. Listening to that audio, reading the file, I can't avoid it anymore. If there's a chance for me to come back, I think — I think I have to take it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I guess I'll talk to Kendall and ask him if I can return if I'm no longer dating Sydney."

"Have you talked to Sydney about this?"

"No. I mean, I just — I was hoping Kendall would just let me come back, no strings attached."

"Don't you think you should talk to her? This is as much her decision as it is yours."

"I will talk to her. But this is my decision."

"Mike, are you sure? I mean, really, really sure? After you've waited all this time to be with her, you want to go back to the way things were? Only worse, I'm guessing?"

"They're worse now, Eric, that's the problem. And I never thought I'd want to go back. But I think I could handle that. I don't think I can keep going the way things are."

"Okay," Weiss says. "Let me go talk to Kendall about it, then. I'll call you back. But, for the record, I really don't know about this one."

"Neither do I," he says, hanging up the phone, a soft, plastic click.

———

Nervous, disjointed, stomach tight, he pulls in to her driveway, puts his car in park. Tries to steel himself for what's ahead. _It's going to hurt like hell, but it's the right thing to do, and you know it._

Weiss had called back, told him that Kendall said if the relationship were clearly over, he could return to the team. Closed their conversation with, "I hope you know what you're doing, Mike."

I do too, Eric. But something has to change, because he can't keep going this way.

She is startled when she answers the door; it is still early afternoon. He'd found his attention drifting when he tried to read through the statements, and decided it would be best to get this over with, return to work later.

"Vaughn — hi. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I just — can I come in?"

"Of course." She swings the door all the way open, steps aside.

This is for the best. You have to do it.

Is it, really? Or is it just because the status quo is driving you insane?

It's because the status quo could kill her.

He walks beside her to the couch, raises one hand to lay it on her shoulder, her back, maybe, but it feels wrong, with what he's about to do, and he lets it drop to his side.

He sits, facing her. "How are you feeling, Syd?"

"Better," she says. "I saw Dixon in the hospital. He's going to have a long recovery, but he should regain full use of the leg. He was supposed to have a second surgery this afternoon, to get everything totally set."

"Good." He tries to smile, finds it comes out weak, feels false. "Look, Syd, I know you're wondering why I'm here. They gave me clearance to listen to the comm audio, from Tokyo."

"Oh."

He brings a hand up to his face, rubs his eyes. His fingers are shaking.

"Sydney, I — I can't keep doing this."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can't just watch you go out there and not know what's happening, not have any ability to help, not be able to contribute to what you're doing."

"I know it's hard, Vaughn. But Weiss was going to talk to Kendall — "

"He did. Kendall isn't budging on us. He said as long as we're in a relationship, he won't let me return to the Task Force."

"Well, then I don't know what you can do, Vaughn. I know it's hard, but we're stuck."

"I can end the relationship," he says, softly. "I'm going to call Kendall, and tell him that's what I intend to do."

"What?" Her eyes go wide in shock, brows knitting together. "Vaughn, you can't — you can't be serious."

"Syd, I am. If there was any other way, I'd take it. But I can't keep going the way things are."

"You can't. Did you ever think about talking to me before you made a decision, Vaughn? Do I get a say in any of this?"

"We're talking about it now."

"No, you're telling me about it. Your mind is already made up." She speaks with narrow, critical eyes, then softens slightly. "Look, Vaughn, I know you spent a long time as my handler, and I appreciate that you still want to be involved, that you want to — protect me, or whatever. But I can take care of myself out there. I was doing it for a long time before I even met you."

"And that last mission, that was protecting yourself?"

"Yes, it was bad. But do you think it would have been any better with you involved? Was it really bad enough for you to go make snap decisions without involving me?"

"Syd, this — it wasn't just this. I've been thinking about where I fit in, I guess, for a long time. I can't do it. Watch you go off on those missions, knowing I won't know until you come back whether you're hurt — or worse. It's making me insane."

"You're not the first person to have to go through that Vaughn. Lots of people in the CIA have significant others at home, and they don't know — "

"The difference is that I was there, before. I do know, or I know enough to guess. And what I guess, Syd — it's awful. If I can go back to knowing everything, I have to."

"So what? You're telling me that it's over, and there's nothing I can do about it?"

"You can transfer," he says, and it sounds weak, terribly weak. "Or quit."

"You know I can't possibly do that. I have to find Sloane."

"And I need to know that I'm doing everything I can to help you, and to make sure that you stay safe while you do it." He reaches across her lap to lay his hand over hers, squeezing tight when she doesn't protest.

"Don't get me wrong, Syd. This is killing me to have to do this. There's been a lot about the last few weeks that it's really going to hurt to let go of. But it kills me to watch you go off on these missions and not know if you're never going to come back. It kills me to see you upset and not know why. No matter how great the other things are, I can't keep doing that. I want to be with you, but with things the way they are now, there's only one decision I can make."

She softens, lets go, tears thick in her eyes and then streaming down her cheeks.

"This doesn't have to be permanent," he says. "But it does have to be for now. I have to be able to go in and honestly tell Kendall that we're not dating, and won't be for the near future. If things change — if we catch Sloane, and you still want to, then maybe we can try again."

"There's nothing I can say, is there? You're decided."

"Syd, I'm sorry. I just can't think of anything else to do."

She bows her head, swipes at wet cheeks with her free hand. Looks back up at him, her eyes hurt, resigned. "If you're going to come back, there's something you should know first."

"What?"

She looks down at their hands, still joined. It is inappropriate, now, but he will not let go until he has to. This is his last chance for even this slight intimacy, and the finality of it strikes him hard.

"You know that the raid on SD-2 went badly, and that we're still trying to track down a lot of their leadership."

"Yeah. That's been one of my assignments, to try to find a mole in Station Munich."

She nods. "We think the leader of SD-2 may be — Vaughn, we suspect that your father is still alive, and that he was the head of SD-2."

Delayed shock. He feels a strange weightlessness, for a moment, as though the couch is gone and the room is swirling around him.

"What? They can't — I don't understand. How — how could they even think he's alive, much less heading an Alliance cell? There was an investigation into his death, Syd. The evidence was compelling. I've read the files myself. I've seen all the pictures — "

"Most of the evidence was based on dental records, Vaughn. Dental records can be faked. I wouldn't have believed it myself, but I've seen the tapes."

"Tapes?"

"The team that raided SD-2 found surveillance tapes of the facility. It took them awhile to snake their way through Analysis, but eventually they identified the man they thought was heading the cell. I saw the picture and I recognized him — it took me awhile to realize it, where I'd seen him before. But I remembered. The file you showed me, of your father — "

"I can't believe this." He pulls his hand away from hers. "It's impossible. Even if he was alive, why would he leave the life he had for that?"

"We don't know that he left that life willingly. My mom won't talk about it, other than to insist that she killed him. We've been trying to track him down for the last week — that's one of the things we hoped to get out of this last mission. We thought it would be a way to locate him and Sloane."

"Wait. You've known about this for a week?" Dizzy, standing against his better judgment. _This is her secret, and it was a secret from you. No wonder she was so fucking upset. She's been lying to you —_

"I wanted to tell you, Vaughn, but they ordered me to keep it a secret."

Her hand reaching out in the space between them, seeking to pull him back to sitting. He doesn't want to touch her, doesn't want to sit.

"I've seen you blow lots of secrets before, Sydney, when it was convenient for you. How could you know my father was alive and not tell me?"

"Might be alive, Vaughn, might. And don't think that it was easy for me to keep this a secret. Do you think I wanted to lie to you, when you're the one person I never wanted to keep secrets from? I was going to tell you, anyway, but Weiss convinced me to wait until we were sure it was him. I knew it would be hard for you to hear that we even suspected — "

"Weiss knew, too?" _Everyone. Everyone!_

She nods, appears on the verge of tears again.

You have a secret too, you know. You've been keeping a secret to protect her.

"Vaughn, I'm sorry. I just didn't want to hurt you unless it was true." She sighs. "There's something else you should know. Kendall gave my father permission to take my mother on another mission, after this one failed. Everything's gone smoothly, and they've made all their scheduled contacts, but I know how you feel about letting her out."

It's just one fucking thing after another. To think that unleashing Irina Derevko on the world is something you'd suddenly consider small potatoes.

He sits again, a little farther away this time.

"Syd — "_You have to tell her, you know. _"There's something I haven't told you, too. Last week, someone pulled your DNA profile from FBI records. You were on a mission, so I contacted your father. I didn't know who else to go to."

"And?"

"He told me he was the one who pulled it. Apparently, Sloane said some things to him that made him doubt that he was — he pulled it for a paternity test, Syd."

"He did what?" She bolts from the couch, and he flinches as she turns to face him. "You — you knew he did that and you didn't tell me, and you yell at me for keeping secrets from you? You know what you are, Vaughn? You're a hypocrite. A fucking hypocrite. How dare you? How dare you just ditch me without even talking about it first? You've never even let on that there was that much of a problem, and now all of a sudden this is your only option?"

"I thought I could handle it. I didn't want to worry you."

"So what, you just want to leave me?"

"It's not like that, Syd, and you know it." He stands to face her, hands clenched at his sides. "I was just trying to protect you, the same as you were with me. I didn't want to hurt you."

"Well you know what, Vaughn? I am hurt."

She turns, walks over to the counter, picks up her keys and looks back at him, eyes hard but glistening.

"I'm going to go for a drive. I'd like for you to be gone when I come back. I don't think there's any reason for you to be here, anymore."

Sydney moving towards the door —

"Syd, don't do this."

Sydney spinning around —

"Why? You got what you wanted, Vaughn. We broke up. I'm sorry if you thought that was going to go well."

And then she is gone, out the door. It slams so hard he can feel it beneath his feet, deep in his chest.

Her Land Rover grumbling in the driveway.

She's gone. You did it.

It hurts even more than he'd expected.

He sits back on the couch, lays his head in his hands. He will need to leave soon, although he'd like to stay and wait for her to cool off, to return. That's probably not the best plan, now. Better to give it a day, try to pull her aside at work tomorrow and speak to her there.

It hurt like hell and maybe she doesn't see it now, but you did the right thing. And eventually maybe you'll be able to mend the fences and go back to being friends. You love her too much not to do this, and she has to see that.

And in the meantime, she'll be safe as you can make her. Out there, after Sloane, your father.

God, your father. It can't be —

But it could. _It would make sense of the discrepancies in the journals. Is it really possible? Could he still be alive? Working for the Alliance? Had he already turned back then?_

Alain Christophe blasted Arvin Sloane's files. Maybe Christophe did the same for his father. Maybe there was a CI investigation into his father, other references pulled from the records before Christophe left.

No, the father he knew was a good man, a patriot. A man who doesn't deserve to be indicted on thin proof Vaughn has never seen. _There's no way he could be alive. He would have come back, for Mom, for you._

But the journals. How do you explain the journals?

He stands, not sure when Sydney will return, starts toward the door.

He won't sleep tonight, even with her home safe.


	12. 1x11: Sacrifices

1.11 — Sacrifices

Saturday, February 27, 2003

He arrives at the Joint Task Force rotunda hollow and jittery, after maybe an hour's sleep. Running on a triple from Starbucks, downed in his car on the way here. In through the 20-floor office building that serves as a front for the JTF, all the way to the back and pressing the intercom button.

It takes a guard five minutes to open the door. Vaughn hands over his credentials wordlessly, waits for the man to give him a flimsy laminate visitor pass. He clips it to his suit lapel and follows the guard inside.

"I need to meet with Kendall," he says.

The guard motions him to the left. Surely this guy must be aware that he already knows the way. _It hasn't been that long._

The rotunda staring at him, again, as he walks through. Weiss looks up from his computer on the far side of the place, a little startled. Vaughn doesn't acknowledge he's seen him.

Down one of the hallways, into the small waiting area outside Kendall's office. Still early for a Saturday morning, and no sign of Kendall's secretary. The guard thumbs the intercom button outside the office door.

"Agent Vaughn here to see you, sir."

The door opens with a light click, swinging mechanically towards them.

He wasn't even sure Kendall would be in today. But he is there, sitting up straight behind the desk in the dark office, stack of file folders in front of him.

"Come in."

"Thank you," to the guard. He walks inside, hears the door close behind him.

"I know Agent Weiss has already talked to you, about my status here."

"Yes, he did. He said that you were considering terminating your relationship with Agent Bristow in order to return to the Task Force. And I told him that it would have to be clearly over before I'd consider such a request."

"That's why I'm here, sir. We're — it is over. As of last night." His eyes move to glance out the window, but Kendall has closed the blinds, the sun glowing orange behind the silver slats. "I've completed my brief on the investigation of the Tokyo mission, and I would be willing to work on anything else needed on that out of this office. I wrapped up briefs on my other pending investigations last night. I would like to return as soon as possible."

"I appreciate your sense of urgency, Agent Vaughn." Kendall pauses. "I will approve the transfer back. Pending, of course, confirmation from Agent Bristow. And you do realize that we will be keeping a close eye on the two of you."

"Yes."

"Good. I'm glad we're understood. Now, as soon as we're able to reach Agent Bristow, we can finalize your transfer."

"You haven't been able to reach her? Was she due in? Do you have any idea where she is?"

"No. She was supposed to be on call, but she hasn't responded to her pager or her cell phone."

"Have you sent a team over to her place?"

"Not yet. We were going to try to reach her by cell one more time. It is rather early for a Saturday morning."

"I've never had her not respond to a phone call. Ever." _Where did you go, Syd? Are you okay?_ "I'm going to go try to find her. I'll call you if I do."

"Same here," Kendall says. "I'm sure she's fine, though. I trust you can see yourself out?"

"Yes, sir."

He's at the door long before it swings open far enough for him to slide through. Walking across the rotunda, past Weiss, past all of them before they can stop him.

———

It is early enough that traffic on the way to her apartment is light. He speed-dials her cell, listens as it clicks straight over into voice mail.

"This is Sydney. I'm not available. Please leave me a message."

Pause. Beep. Deep breath.

"Syd, it's me. I don't — they said at JTF that you hadn't responded to your phone. Just please, call me — call somebody — and let us know you're okay."

He hits end, calls Will.

"Will Tippin. Leave a message."

"Hey, Will, this is Michael Vaughn. I was just wondering if you've heard from Sydney. Give me a call. Thanks."

He wonders if Will knows yet what happened last night. If Sydney came back into the apartment in tears and ran into her friends.

What if she never came back? She said she was going for a drive. You don't know if she ever made it back.

He sees her Land Rover, briefly, around a curve on Highway 1. Over the cliff and smashed, smoking. Into the ocean, sinking, Sydney inside, unconscious. _ After everything, you could have driven her into what you feared the most._

Damn it, Sydney, where are you?

He tries Francie. Another message. _Maybe it's just too early in the fucking morning for anyone to answer their phone._

Onto her street, into the driveway. No cars parked there. He puts the car in park, turns it off but doesn't lock it when he gets out.

A light couple of knocks on her front door. If she is here, she's not going to be happy to see him.

No response. He knocks harder. Nothing.

Harder still. Shouting, "Sydney?" Rapping his knuckles against the white-painted wood.

Still nothing.

He tries the knob. Locked, which he'd expected. Unlocked and no answer would have been far more frightening. He pulls out his wallet, fishes under the lining in the seams made by the folds, pulls out two thin metal rods. She may well hurt him for this if she is here.

The lock is standard, and he is surprised that someone, SD-6 or CIA, hadn't wanted to fortify it before now. It takes him less than 10 seconds, and then he is turning the knob, stepping cautiously inside.

Lights off, nothing disturbed. Francie is probably at the restaurant, Will too. He moves through the apartment, calling her name. _Maybe she went for a long drive, and she's out of cell service. Maybe her battery died. Maybe she turned off her phone because she didn't want to hear from you._

He opens her bedroom door. Her suitcase is sitting in the middle of the floor.

Maybe she was too upset to drive last night.

He walks to the kitchen, to the small whiteboard they keep on the refrigerator door. It is blank.

He pulls out his cell phone and dials Kendall, but central dispatch picks up. For a moment, he's relieved that someone — anyone — answered.

"I need to speak with Director Kendall, please."

"I'm sorry, but he's not in the office right now."

"Okay, then, ah — Agent Weiss?"

"Let me transfer you."

A few moments of static silence — no hold music at the JTF — and then Weiss answers.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"Hey, Mike. You could have stopped to say hello, you know."

I could have, if I didn't know about the fucking secret you've been keeping from me for the last week. "Sydney's missing. Nobody's been able to contact her today, and I'm at her apartment — she's not here."

"I know they haven't been able to contact her, Mike, but that doesn't make her missing. Wherever she is, I'm guessing she might not want you to find her. Assuming you went through with things last night."

"I did." He gives the apartment one final scan, then walks to the front door.

"Then just give her a little time. It's possible her cell phone just died, you know?"

"Kendall said they paged her, too." Front door locked, and only a pro could tell he's picked it. Sydney will know, but maybe that's not a bad thing.

"Okay, then she could just be ignoring all of us."

"I'm just worried about her. After we — after we fought, she drove off. What if there was an accident? What if she never made it home?"

"Mike, you can't think that way. Have you called LAPD?"

"No."

"Okay, then let me do that. You just go and calm down."

"I'm going to go look for her."

"All right, then be careful. Don't get yourself so worked up over this you can't think straight."

———

Weiss calls back as he's walking the pier, searching for a sad silhouette in the morning sun. Boards thunking hollow under his feet and salt in his nose. It has been a long time since he's come here.

"LAPD says they have no record of a Land Rover matching hers in any accidents over the last 24 hours. No Sydney Bristow, and no Jane Does matching her description, either. So wherever she is, Mike, she probably just doesn't want to be found. But I'm sure she's okay."

"Thanks."

"Where are you?"

"The pier."

"Any sign of her?"

"No. There are a couple of other places I want to try."

"She's a spy, Mike. If she wants to get lost, she'll get lost."

"I know," he says. "But I can't just sit around and wait for her to reappear."

———

He gives up the search hours later, heads back to his old office, the one he'd hoped to vacate today, and decides he'll try to wait for word here. Calls Weiss from the parking garage.

"Hey, Eric. You heard anything yet?"

"No, but when I do, you'll be the first to know."

"I've looked everywhere I know to look. I think we need to designate her as missing. And I know maybe she's just avoiding me, or avoiding work, or whatever. But what if she's not? It's been hours, now, Eric."

"I know. Look, I'll try to track down Kendall and get him to approve it, but he left the office this morning and nobody's seen him since."

"Keep trying. Something — something about this feels really bad to me."

"I will. Hang in there, Mike."

His cell phone rings as he's striding down the temporary divider hallway to his office, Will Tippin on the display.

Send. "Have you heard from Sydney?"

"I — " Perhaps he should have let Will talk first. "That's why I was calling. She's — she's with me, or at least she was."

"What are you talking about?"

"She came to me last night. She told me — she told me they'd called her, that someone had kidnapped Francie. She said she needed my help to try go after her."

Jesus, Syd. Hand to his head. Turning around to go back to his car. "Will, what happened? Where is she now?"

"I'm in a van outside this old school in Chicago. She had me work comms — she went inside. But she went in half an hour ago and I lost contact and I haven't heard from her since. She hasn't come back out. I didn't know who else to call. She said the two of you — "

"How long has it been since you lost contact?" He'll take the stairs, so he doesn't lose the signal.

"About 20 minutes, I think."

Shit. "Why did you wait so long? She could be dead in there!"

"It sounded like she found Francie. I thought maybe she turned it off."

"For 20 minutes?"

"I don't know! I'm out here and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing and I'd go in there after her myself, but all I've got is this pistol, and — "

"Will?"

"What?"

"Listen to me. You stay put. You do not go in there. I'm going to be out there as soon as I can. Call me and let me know if anything changes."

"Okay."

Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, what did you do?

End. Out the door, into the parking garage. He calls Weiss, pulse pounding at his throat.

"I need you to meet me at LAX in 30 minutes."

"What?"

"LAX. 30 minutes. Start moving and I'll explain." At his car, single click on the remote keyless and in.

"Okay, moving."

"Will Tippin just called me. Apparently someone kidnapped Francie and Syd went after her."

"By herself?"

"With Will." Pulling out backwards faster than he should. Straightening and then forward, speeding through the garage.

"Close enough. Where is she?"

"Some old school building in Chicago. She went in half an hour ago and Will hasn't heard from her in 20 minutes."

Thirty miles an hour down the last ramp, the car bouncing hard where the pavement flattens.

"Okay, Mike, I want to go out there and help, but now is the time we need to bring in the cavalry."

"There's a mole in the JTF, or there may be." Swiping his access card, out into daylight, tires squealing the first few feet. "That must have been why she didn't tell them in the first place."

"And she didn't tell you because you had a spat."

"It was a little more than that."

"Whatever."

"I don't think we can go in with anyone we can't trust 100 percent. I'm going to try to get a hold of Jack Bristow, but — "

"He's still out on a mission."

"With Derevko."

"How did you know that?"

"I know a lot of things that have been going on over there, now." Silence over the line, for a moment. He wonders if Weiss gets the barb.

"Okay, so we get to this place, then what?"

"Then we go in and hope it's not too late."

———

They're in a rental car, I-190 out of O'Hare in under six hours. He has spent most of the plane ride wondering if this was a bad idea, if they should have called someone already in the city. The CIA has a few agents here — maybe the FBI could have even handled it.

But using assets in Chicago would have meant going through the JTF, through Kendall. And even if Kendall would have approved it, there's still the issue of the mole. _No, you're doing the right thing. Just please let us not be too late._

Weiss is driving, quickly, recklessly, but it is probably better that Vaughn didn't drive. Left hand lane, close to tailing the car in front of them, until Weiss flips his arms on the wheel, pulling into a narrow slot one lane over. Around the car and back into the left, pushing 100. _God, don't let us get pulled over now._

He stretches his seat belt, reaches into the backseat for the black nylon duffel bag he'd tossed there in the airport lot. He'd stopped at his apartment only long enough to pull together the contents of the safe in his bedroom closet: large Maglite, Kevlar vest, enough ammo to survive a fairly substantial firefight, backup H&K USP and spare holster. Weiss had done the same, and they'd pooled everything in the bag and credentialed their way through security, changed into black pants and jackets in the airport bathroom while their plane was boarding first class.

He checks guns first, straps a holster for the spare onto his thigh and then slides it in. Clips a Maglite onto his belt as they scream around a left-hand exit, onto the Dan Ryan. Back up over 100. So close, after so much waiting. So close to finally being able to do something. Adrenaline rush, humming around his head. They will find her. She will be okay.

Comm wire around his ear. Weiss brakes hard, crosses three lanes and swings off, their final exit. Flying through the surface streets, now, and glad traffic is relatively light. They run a red light, hard around a right-hand turn, and there, ahead, is the van Will described over the AirFone. Weiss squeals to a stop behind it, rips the keys from the ignition, takes guns and comm from Vaughn's hands.

Vaughn does not wait for him, out of the car and running to the van. He knocks on the door three times, as they've discussed. It opens immediately. Will looks frightened, harried.

"Have you heard anything? Seen anything? Any changes?" Vaughn asks.

"No. It doesn't look like there's anyone in there, but it didn't look like anyone was in there when she went in. I haven't seen anyone leave or anything, but they could have gone out the other side."

The school down the street, most of it visible through the van window. Three stories of maroon brick and a rusting playground in the small lot next to it. Several of the windows are covered with plywood, and the first story has been thoroughly graffitied.

"It's been closed for almost 10 years," Will says. "The property was purchased by Tensa Corp. three years ago."

"Front company for the Alliance."

"That's what Sydney said."

"How did she even know to go here?"

"She called her mother."

"Damn it." _Trust Irina Derevko one too many times —_

"Ready to go, guys," Weiss huffs behind him, slipping inside the van, still pulling his comm link on. He looks to Will. "We'll be on channel four."

They back out of the van, and Vaughn takes lead as they start down the street, close to the buildings. He hates that it is still daylight, that they have no plan, no map, no intel. His hand tight on the gun, held low, down around his thighs.

Across the street, boots slapping on asphalt. He eyes the front door, scans the building for a better-looking entrance. There, to the right, a smaller door.

Turning on his comm link. "Will, we're about to go in. Do you copy?"

Static and then a simple "yeah."

The door is steel, painted maroon to match the rest of the building. Recently padlocked, the lock cut clean and lying on the ground by their feet. This must be the way she went in, and maybe that makes it a dangerous entrance. But they could be running out of time.

He thumbs the control lever on the H&K, holds it steady. Swings the door open so hard it claps against the side of the building. _Easy, easy._ Dark, inside, no threats that he can see. He pulls the Maglite from his belt and clicks it on.

The long, narrow beam bounces down an empty hallway. He steps inside, Weiss close behind, soon a second flashlight beam. It smells damp, musty; plenty of rodents must have lived and died here. The hallway is sided by doors, likely classrooms. He moves swiftly to the closest one, swings it open. Nothing but old wooden desks, stacked against the far wall.

Weiss spins behind him and he follows, across and down the hallway a bit to the next room. Door open and nothing, again.

"Will, we're in the building but we're not finding anything so far." Back in the lead, across the hall to the next classroom. "Do you have any idea where Sydney went when she got inside?"

"No, but it took her a long time to find Francie, I know that."

They're approaching an intersection — maybe there's something down the other hallway. _Maybe her, maybe her body, god, not her body —_

Last classroom, empty. They hug the wall on the left side of the hallway, sliding up to the corner and then around. He waves his flashlight across an even longer hallway in front of him, Weiss checking the other side.

Vaughn glances over to that side when he's certain his is clear, finds that there's nothing more than another door outside. He turns and starts down the hallway. The doors here are only on the left side, the right covered with bulletin boards, paper faded and torn.

First door, nothing. Second door, nothing. _What did you find, Sydney? What was here?_

He feels the frustration well as he opens the third door, tells himself to stay sharp, she needs him to stay sharp, there's got to be something here, somewhere. And yes, inside here, a lone wooden chair in the middle of the floor. Ropes on the floor, knotted and cut — someone was tied up and later released. Sunlight sliding around the plywood on the windows. Dusty cobwebs glittering in the light. Empty syringe on the floor.

"Shit." This from Weiss.

Vaughn leans over and touches the side of the syringe. _Tortured? Sedated?_

Killed?

"Come on," Weiss says. "She could still be here."

He forces a step backward, turns and follows Weiss outside the classroom, starting further down the hallway.

Weiss stops, arm raised, pointing. Just into view, the lone door on the right side of the hall, faint light streaming out from beneath.

Across the hallway, against the wall, fluid, twenty steps to the door. Weiss gestures for him to take lead when they enter, then wraps his hand around the knob. Turning. Pushing. The door clapping open and then he is swinging around Weiss, gun up, stepping forward, into the light —

There are people here.

He sees Arvin Sloane first, maybe fifteen feet to his left, standing next to Emily Sloane, seated in a wheelchair. Next to them, Sark, Francie. Kendall.

What in the —

A large group of people — 30, maybe — standing in a half-circle around the edges of an old gymnasium. Two stories, the second floor only a balcony at the back. Still a net on one of the basketball hoops. Half of the lights are burnt out, but it is still far brighter than the hallway.

Weiss rushing in behind him, the sound of guns pulled from holsters, guns cocked. He follows the sound, finds Irina Derevko, part of the circle and pointing a Glock at him, Jack Bristow standing beside her, a gun in his hand as well.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He doesn't dwell on Kendall, Emily or Francie, standing there with a Glock pointed at them. Scanning the line of people instead, trying to determine how many are armed. He recognizes many of them. Alain Christophe, on the far side, whom he knows only from grainy surveillance photos. Sided by members of the Alliance, high-ranking agents of the CIA, Mi5, FBI, SVR.

He counts eight guns pointed at him, and thinks they are not going to have a chance. He should have gotten backup, should have called the Agency._ But how would that have helped? They're already here._

He keeps his gun trained on Derevko, glances toward the center of the room, the focal point of the crowd before Vaughn and Weiss burst in.

He notices the water first, a large clear plastic tub, at least 10 feet high, the water boiling. In front of it —

Sydney.

She is gagged, strapped into a chair. Wide leather straps, big metal buckles. Looking pale, drugged, her eyes dull and half open. _Oh god._ Electrodes taped to her head, wires running between them and a mess of ancient machinery, connected to the tub. _Rambaldi._

A man, barely visible, stands on the far side of the water, leaning over the equipment. The man rises, strides around Sydney's chair. Into full view now —

Oh my god.

Dad?

It is, undoubtedly, his father. Aged 30 years, but still the same man from fuzzy eight-year-old memories and old pictures. He feels briefly dizzy, but does not allow the reaction his body threatens. He must hold it together. Sydney needs him. Even if this is hopeless, she needs him to try.

His father steps around the mess of Rambaldi devices, around Sydney, and halts beside her. Tall, poised, unarmed.

"Michael." One hand comes up to rest on his hip. "I thought you might make an appearance." He speaks the same way he did to Vaughn's 8-year-old self. "Now, why don't you put that gun down, because you're obviously outnumbered, and I don't want these people to have to hurt you."

He glances at Weiss, who has trained his gun on Sark, Francie and Sloane's portion of the human crescent. A slight nod from Weiss — they'll never survive a shootout.

He extends his arm, drops the gun. Watches where it lands, just in case.

"The leg, too," his father says.

Vaughn slides the other H&K from the holster on his thigh, drops it close to the first, hears Weiss do the same. Glances back up at his father, Sydney, whatever contraption this is. He recognizes the flower they retrieved in Kashmir, sitting at the bottom of the boiling tub.

"Michael." His father has taken a few steps closer to him. "I had hoped you wouldn't find out like this. But please allow me an explanation, now that you're here."

His father steps closer still. "You know that Arvin, Jack and I all worked for the CIA in the '70s, I'm certain."

Vaughn balls his hands into tight fists at his sides, does not respond.

"What you don't know is that the three of us were friends. Still are."

Vaughn glances over at Jack. _What part do you play in all of this? I thought you, of all people, were on her side?_

"Arvin came to us one day. He'd been on an extended assignment in Algeria and he'd found some things that gave him pause. Manuscripts, by the man we came to know as Milo Rambaldi. At the end of the assignment, he turned in everything he'd found except those documents. In them, Rambaldi detailed some of his inventions and described his jubilation at finding the secret to preserving life. Eternal life, Michael."

His father walks back to the machine, checks the wires running between Sydney and the equipment, his fingers plucking at them like guitar strings.

"Arvin looked at those documents and knew he had to find it — the formula, the pieces, whatever it was Rambaldi had found. I'm sure you're thinking it was hard to believe that the manuscripts were legitimate, that this Rambaldi person really had found some sort of secret to eternal life. But do you know what one of the inventions was, Michael? Schematics, for a flying machine so similar to what Orville and Wilbur Wright took out over Kittyhawk it was uncanny. Drawn up in the sixteenth century! How could one not be awed? How could you not believe?"

Another pause. He watches Sydney, tries gauge her health. What have they done to her already? What are they planning to do?

"But he knew it would be too difficult, too extensive a search, to do this by himself. So he approached his friends in intelligence — Jack and I," his father continues. "At first, we were shocked that he had withheld information from the CIA. We thought about turning him in. Could we do that, to a close friend? And then he showed us the documents. We were awed, Michael, awed. And after a lot of discussion, we decided that if there was a chance — if we could somehow find everything Rambaldi had been working on, and provide it for ourselves, for our families, we had to do it.

"We made a pact that day, Michael, that we would each do whatever possible to acquire Rambaldi's secret to eternal life. We knew it might take us out of the CIA, into other organizations — things like the Alliance, that could operate outside the constraints of American law. But Rambaldi's immortality would always be the central goal."

His father turns back toward him. Still tall, stately, although less so, now that Vaughn has long since grown to nearly his height. His hair the biggest change in his appearance, almost entirely gray. Deeper lines in his face, and no sign of the smile he'd always worn when he greeted Michael after a long time away.

_How could you still be alive, Dad? How? Why? Why all those years and then you just appear now, like this?_

"Less than a year after we made the pact, I was pursuing a Rambaldi lead in the states — an auction yard in Texas, off the books. The CIA didn't know I was there," his father says. "And who did I run into but Laura Bristow. Or Irina Derevko, as we soon learned. She was there for the Soviet Union, also onto Rambaldi early. I gave her a choice. I would turn her in to the CIA, or she could go back with me and join in our pact, tell Jack and Sloane. She chose to tell them."

Weiss shifts beside him. How long will his father talk? What is his explanation delaying?

"Jack was understandably shocked, but eventually we were able to work things out. They — Jack and Irina — repaired their relationship as best they could, and we all moved forward. Over the years, we brought in more people, those you see here, minus a few who didn't make it. We were able to cover a broad range of organizations. CIA, FBI, KGB — then SVR, MI-5, Alliance, K-Directorate. It made our search all the more effective," his father says. "I'm sure you're wondering about my disappearance, or death, as you knew it."

"I have more pressing concerns right now." Trying to maintain control, watching Sydney as her head lolls sideways, her dull eyes looking somewhere in his direction.

His father starts, anyway. "Irina came to me one night. My name was on a list of CIA operatives she had been ordered to kill, and they would kill her, and her family, if she didn't follow the order. We had no choice but to make plans to fake my death."

"That's why they had to identify you by your dental records." How many times has he looked at those dental records, read that file, looked at those pictures and felt sick? _All for something false._ _All for a lie and someone else's body in those pictures and a father you mourned who was still alive all those years._

"Dental records are easy to fake," his father says. "Especially when you have someone inside the Agency who can switch the real records with the fakes."

He glances down at the floor, and for a moment, he looks like the father Vaughn remembers, like the kind man who kissed his mother and ruffled his hair. "It so was hard to leave you and your mother, Michael, but I had to. I had no other choice. I laid low for awhile, and then the formation of the Alliance gave me an opportunity to get back into the game. Eventually, I found myself heading SD-2."

"So the Alliance was formed so you all could follow this Rambaldi quest?" Glancing at Christophe, standing there amidst the crescent, unarmed in a three-piece suit.

"No, but we saw an opportunity, and so some of us defected. The rule was always to each do what would best further the quest. In some cases, such as Jack's, we doubled up, worked two organizations at once. In the beginning, the Alliance was not even aware of Rambaldi, and they didn't know the Rambaldi artifacts we were recovering were as valuable as they were." His father pauses. "For a few years, the search seemed to stagnate, and we were concerned. Then K-Directorate uncovered a cache of Rambaldi artifacts in Tunisia, and we were off and running again."

His father glances over in Sydney's direction. "In recent years, Sydney has unknowingly done most of our work for us. That's why this is so unfortunate."

"Unfortunate? What do you mean, unfortunate?"

"The last documents we found detailed how to assemble the machine that would bring us what we had been seeking for so long. But there were a few things missing."

"The flower." He looks at it, there in the midst of the boiling water, seemingly unaffected by the heat.

"Yes, but there was more. Rambaldi detailed one person with a unique electrochemical brain composition, someone necessary to activate the process. Some of us suspected Sydney Bristow right away, because of the prophecy. But Jack and Irina argued that we needed more proof. It could have even been Irina. The prophecy could have been completely separate. So the group decided that we would wait, until we could uncover definite proof. Unfortunately, as it was drawn by Rambaldi, whomever underwent the procedure would not survive. I assure you, we did not take that lightly. Not when it was one of our own children whose life would be required."

His father walks around the water tank. Behind it, barely visible from Vaughn's vantage, is a large gas generator, a white box enclosed in a red steel frame. His father flips a switch on the front panel, and it shudders, vibrating on the floor, a loud buzzing noise.

Whatever it is, he's started it, and you're running out of time —

"Two weeks ago, we found another document." his father continues, walking back around to look at him. "It detailed the specific genetic profile of the one. Mr. Sark?"

Sark leaves the line, walking behind the circle and then returning with a large manila envelope in his hand, the old-fashioned kind, string twisting around two circles to close it. Sark unwinds the string, then lifts up the flap on the envelope, slides out the contents.

He holds up an old piece of parchment first, clearly a Rambaldi document, dotted with what looks like a genetic map. Then a piece of clear plastic, another genetic map. Sydney's DNA profile — a copy of what had been in her file.

Sark slides the plastic in front of the parchment. Perfect match.

This cannot be happening.

He turns to Jack. "You pulled her DNA profile. To see if it was her."

Jack says nothing, only nods slightly, gun still trained on Vaughn and Weiss, cold stare on his face.

"How can you do this? How can you send your daughter off to slaughter like this? Eternal life? Is it really worth it?"

Jack doesn't answer, but Sloane does. "All of us have made sacrifices to be here today. Some of us, admittedly, far greater than others. We would have liked to have waited longer, to give Sydney a few more years, but we are running out of time."

Emily Sloane looks sick, very sick, gaunt and stoic in the wheelchair beside her husband. _They must have faked her death, but she's still dying. They must think this can save her._

"You're crazy," he says. "You're all crazy. Eternal life? It's not possible. And this — whatever this contraption is, you honestly think this would be the way to do it? That you would have to electrocute one specific person? That Rambaldi could have predicted her entire DNA structure umpteen centuries ago?"

"We were all skeptical at first, Michael," his father says. "But every prediction Rambaldi has made has come true, and every device he's designed has functioned flawlessly. In the face of that, we concluded that it must be genius we did not understand."

"So you're going to kill someone to further your own purposes."

"She's far from the first person to die as a result of this quest. It is unfortunate, Michael, but necessary."

"But this is different. She's their daughter."

"It is necessary." Irina speaks for the first time. Cold, articulate.

"This was all decided long ago," Jack says, gun hand steady as his voice. "It was part of the pact. Whatever it takes."

"No pact should make you have to kill your own daughter."

He is getting nowhere with them — cold, clinical Jack and Irina, willing to kill their daughter to live forever. They are going to kill her, right here, he thinks, and it overwhelms him.

Looking straight into his father. "You know I love her."

"Yes."

"You can stand there, and kill her, knowing that I love her?"

"You've heard them, Michael. It is a necessary sacrifice," his father says. "One you will ultimately benefit from, as well. It was always my intention to bring you and your mother into this. Everything I've done has been for our family."

Anger welling deep within, the image of his mother, asleep on the couch in her pink scrubs because she was too exhausted to make it upstairs to the bedroom. "What you could have done for our family was be there for us while I was growing up. While mom was working double shifts at the hospital trying to make ends meet."

"Michael, I know it was difficult, but we'll have forever to be together. Twenty-six years pales in the face of an eternity."

"I don't want an eternity without her." Looking at Sydney, pale in the chair. He thinks of her the last time they spoke, upset and hurt.

"In time, you'll get over her, Michael. I know it's hard to believe that now. But you'll have forever to find someone else."

"There's not anyone else. There's never going to be anyone else. And if it takes her death — "

Choking on it. He can't finish, could never finish that.

"This is not your decision to make, Michael. Regardless of what you choose, we must move forward." His father walks back toward the generator.

It's now, it's coming — they are going to kill her, electrocute her somehow with this mess unless he does something. His mind spinning through the possibilities, the guns on the floor in front of him.

His father's hand moving toward the large black knob on the generator's front panel —

He is weak in the right hand, but the left, yes, he could do it. Dive and come up firing and there's just enough of a path between here and his father to have a clean shot. Devote the right hand to Jack and Irina and Sark and whoever else with a gun he can hit before they get him, and maybe with Weiss there it will be enough to save her. It is their only chance.

You'd have to kill him.

He doesn't love you. He never loved you, not if he was willing to do this, not if he stayed away that long. But can you do it? Can you kill — can you kill your own father to save her? Can you look up and point that gun and pull the trigger?

He braces himself. _He doesn't love you. He never did._

His father's hand on the knob —

He dives. Down on the floor, grasping for a gun with each hand, favoring the left — leave the right for later. He only needs to land one shot right away.

Grasping metal, arm up and ready to fire. He looks at his target just in time to see the explosion, the blood, on William Vaughn's forehead, his body collapsing on the floor beside the generator.

His finger tight on the trigger. He has not fired a shot.

Turning, a quick glance over his shoulder.

The shooter. Who is the shooter?

Irina Derevko.

Her Glock pointed toward his father and now turning, opening fire on Sark, Sloane. Jack beside her, doing the same. Vaughn aims for Christophe and the other side of the gym, Weiss down on the floor beside him, searching for his own gun, coming up firing. The crescent dispersed, all of them running, those with guns firing back.

Chaos, all of them running toward the exits. Running, falling, either out or dead. Someone — Mi5, he thinks, approaches the generator. Vaughn shoots him, once, twice, until he drops.

Sark and Francie out the door together before he can get a shot in their direction. Gunfire ringing in his ears, muzzles flashing orange across his vision. On his stomach on the floor, trying to hit as many as he can. _Stop them all. They all want to kill her. You have to get her out of here._

Sydney still stranded in the middle of the gym, strapped to the chair, defenseless. They may want to keep her alive until they can use the device, but there are too many guns, too many bullets streaking across the gym.

He pulls his body up into a crouch and prepares to go to her, but her mother is already there, ripping at the leather straps, unbuckling them. She turns toward him as he starts to approach.

"Go after Sloane!" Irina's hair whipping around, gun hand pointed at the far exit and Arvin Sloane, pushing his wife's wheelchair out the door. Her shots miss, sparking off the metal door as it closes. "Go!" She returns her attention to Sydney.

No one from the Agency has been this close to Arvin Sloane since the Alliance fell, had this good a chance to catch him. He sprints across the open floor, feels someone firing at him from a corner but missing wide. He glances back at Sydney and her mother as he reaches the door. Irina with Sydney's arm draped over her shoulders, supporting her to standing. Jack running up behind them to assist, gun hand swaying back and forth to cover them.

He wants badly to help them, to be with her now. But she would want him to go.

The door swings open in front of his hand, out into daylight. Sloane maybe 15 feet ahead of him, pushing his wife down the long concrete ramp that leads from the door to a crumbling parking lot.

Stop and aim, his best Weaver stance, hands out in front, one supporting the other, feet solid underneath him. "Freeze!"

Sloane makes no indication he's heard anything. Twenty feet away now, approaching the pavement.

"Arvin Sloane! Freeze!"

Twenty five. He'll have to shoot him in the back, shoot him trying to save his wife. _Is Arvin Sloane really the bad guy, anymore?_

He's the guy that was willing to kill Sydney. He did kill Danny, and countless other innocents. He's on Interpol's most wanted list, shoot to kill.

She would want him to shoot.

Thirty feet. He has three rounds left on this clip; he's been counting. Raising his aim slightly, well high of the top of Emily's wheelchair, just in case.

He pulls the trigger, twice. One, two, into the base of Sloane's neck. He topples over, the wheelchair shooting out in front of him, rolling forward, bouncing along the ragged asphalt.

Vaughn runs forward, kneels next to Sloane. Fingers down on his wrinkled neck, carotid artery, searching for a pulse. There is nothing. He looks up, at Emily. She has fallen out of the chair, crawling across the ground.

"Arvin! Arvin!" Tears streaming down her face as she reaches the body, crying his name again and again. Her hand — pallid, skeletal — reaches out, comes to rest in the blood on the back of Sloane's head.

She looks up at Vaughn, blue eyes striking in the dark holes of her emaciated face. "I didn't want them to do it. I didn't. When Arvin told me it was Sydney, I told him no. I couldn't let them do that to her for me. I wouldn't want them to do that to anyone."

He has never met Emily Sloane in person before, but he believes this is the truth. She is the kind woman from Sydney's stories, a good person inexplicably in love with an awful, evil man.

"I believe you," he says. It seems inadequate.

"Arvin told me he couldn't lose me. He said they were going to do it anyway, regardless of whether I wanted it or not, and if they did it now I could live. I could be healthy. I wish I would have been stronger. I wanted to call, to warn someone, but I couldn't — "

"It's okay. Sydney's safe. She's with her parents."

Emily shakes her head, fingers stroking the silver, blood-speckled hair on the crown of Sloane's head. "If I would have called, this wouldn't have happened. He would have been with me for the end."

"I'm sorry," he says, and means it. Sorry he took Emily's husband, not that he's killed Arvin Sloane, even if they are the same.

She nods.

"They'll consider you an accessory to everything that went on here. They'll want to talk to you, maybe even charge you. You shouldn't have to go through that. Do you think you can get out of here on your own? It should be awhile before our backup arrives."

"Yes. Thank you."

He rises, suddenly remembering Sydney inside, needing to get back to her.

"He was my strength, you know." Emily looks up at him. "In spite of everything."

Vaughn turns, begins to run back to the gym. He's nearly at the top of the ramp when he hears the gunshot. A flash of betrayal, checking over his body to see if he's been hit. She must not have been who he, who Sydney thought she was, must have been more involved than he thought —

He hasn't been hit, as far as he can tell. He turns around to look at her.

A bloody mess of curly blond hair, draped over her dead husband's body. Gun on the ground by her hand. It's clear he won't need to go back to check for a pulse.

He'd forgot to check Sloane for a gun.

———

Still shaken by the image of Emily Sloane, he swings open the gym door, new clip in his gun and ready to go. But the place is eerily silent, no sign of Sydney, Jack, Irina. No sign of movement, period.

He surveys the carnage on the floor, notes Kendall among the dead. _That explains a lot. It's why he was so adamant about keeping us apart until he thought it wouldn't matter anymore._

Divide and conquer, and it nearly worked.

They'd done a lot of damage in a short time, but a lot of the group still got away. His scan halts on Weiss, doubled over and pained on the other side of the gym. Vaughn runs, watching where his feet land on the bloody wood floor.

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" Leaning over Weiss, hand on his friend's shoulder.

Weiss nods. "Got hit in the vest. Just a little winded."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Weiss says. He leans back a bit, attempts a deep breath. "Irina and Jack took Sydney. I don't know where they went. I think she's safe, though. I don't know what the hell is up or down anymore. I mean, look at — "

The gym door bangs open. Two black-clad men flow in, armed with assault rifles, ski masks on their faces. Vaughn scrambles for his own gun, aiming at them as four more run in behind them.

The ones that got away, they must have come back with reinforcements —

"Vaughn, stand down." One of the first two men. He reaches up to the top of his head, pulls the ski mask off. "We're with the Bureau. Backup's here."

"You're too late, backup," Weiss wheezes. "Anybody that was a threat in here's dead, or close."

"They say we're clear in here. Have somebody check the perimeter just in case. We're gonna look around in here." The man reaches up to his ear. "Copy that."

Vaughn remembers his own comm link. Was it on this whole time?

His answer comes when Will Tippin runs in, halting at the site of the bodies on the floor. "Whoa." He walks gingerly over to Vaughn and Weiss. "You guys okay? Where's Sydney?"

"We're fine, and we think she's with her parents," Vaughn says.

"Is that good?"

"As far as we can tell."

Will gestures to the tactical team. "I heard everything on the radio and I didn't know what to do, so I called my supervisor in Analysis. It took me awhile to convince him this was legit."

Vaughn looks up at the team, busy checking pulses of the bodies on the floor. One stops over Kendall's body. "Hey, guys, I think we're gonna have to get some sort of authority figure in here."

"I've got a live one!" Another agent, not far from the one that discovered Kendall. He watches a few of them rush over to him, the rest fruitlessly checking elsewhere.

Some of them leave, eventually, replaced by paramedics carrying a medical board. He looks at Weiss. "You need a medic?"

"No, I think what I need would be more along the lines of a beer. Or six. I'm fine, Mike."

Vaughn stands, scans the gym again, glancing over the pockets of activity. Looks for the first time since he's been back here at the center, the Rambaldi device and his father's body next to the generator.

He walks there in slow, stiff steps, gun still hanging from his hand. Someone has turned the generator completely off, and the water in the tank no longer boils, the flower inside still intact, still perfect.

William Vaughn lies at an awkward angle, arms and legs splayed where he fell. The blood from his forehead pooled around his head. Eyes wide open and shocked below the hole. Square jaw still clean.

There's no doubt this time. No dental records. It was him, and now he's dead.

The signs were all there, that he was corrupt, and you didn't want to believe them. How could you? How could you just dismiss the father you knew, the patriot who loved his job and would do anything for his country? The man who loved his wife and son?

You couldn't until you saw him here. He wasn't that. He wasn't any of that. He was a man on a crazy quest, a man every bit as evil as Arvin Sloane, maybe more, and he was willing to do anything to further his quest. Even kill Sydney.

And now he's dead and you can't even ask him. Ask him why. Ask him if he ever loved you and mom, or if it was just about the quest, the pact.

You lost him again. Only this time you lost so much more.

He is vaguely aware of the gun slipping from his hand, landing with a clunk on the floor. Of his body swaying and his knees buckling. Landing, kneeling beside the body.

He feels light-headed, wonders briefly if this is shock. Lays his head in his hands but doesn't cry. He is not ready for that, yet.

He never loved you. If he loved you, he would have come back.

———

"Mike." Weiss' voice from far away, hand on Vaughn's shoulder. "Hey, Mike."

He pulls his head out of his hands, the gym light bright, jarring on his eyes.How long has he been here?

"Sydney was dumped at a local hospital," Weiss says. "She's in Agency custody now."

"Is she okay?"

"She was pretty heavily drugged, but she's going to be fine. No injuries. I'm sorry to interrupt, but you've — you've been here a long time. I thought you'd want to know."

"Yeah, thanks. I just — it's a lot to take in."

"I know. Did Sydney tell you, before, that we thought he was alive?"

"Yes, she did." He searches for the old anger and finds he no longer cares that Weiss knew. That particular lie seems trivial, now. "I never thought we'd confirm it like this."

"I told her to wait, Mike. I didn't want to worry you until we were sure. That was wrong. I should have — "

"Doesn't matter. I don't care about any of that now."

Weiss nods. "Why don't we get you out of here and go see Sydney?"

"Yeah." He stands with Weiss, and they start across the gym, mostly clean now. Two members of the tactical team carry a body bag past them.

"Hey," a third, walking behind the body bag. "I don't know where you two think you're going, but I've got orders to get you both on a plane back to L.A. You're in for one hell of a debrief."

"We'll do that as soon as we have a chance to go visit Agent Bristow in the hospital," Weiss says.

"You're too late," the agent says. "She's already on a flight back. Now, we're out of here in 10 minutes. Be ready."

The agent follows the other two out the door, leaving Vaughn and Weiss alone in the gym.

"Where's Will?" Vaughn asks.

"With Sydney, I think. I kind of lost track of him, but I think they wanted to get someone she knew over there with her, and you weren't exactly — how are you doing, Mike?"

Vaughn shakes his head. "I'm fine, I think. I don't even know why I was over there. I shouldn't be upset that he's dead. He wasn't the man I thought he was. He wasn't anything close."

"He was still your father."

"I'm not sure what that means, anymore."

— End Part I —


	13. 2x1: For the Record

— Part II —

Chapter 2.1 — For the record

Sunday, March 1, 2003

Ding.

A quick glance up at the seat belt light, then back to the window. The lights on the ground are thinner now; they must be nearing the Rockies, turbulence ahead.

As far as Vaughn can tell, he is the only person awake in the cabin besides the attendant. 737, half full, Weiss asleep across the aisle. The attendant had made a futile attempt to chat awhile back, leaned into his row of seats and asked if he needed anything, and did he fly a lot? I'm fine, thank you, and yes, I do, and he'd turned back to the window.

The plane bucks, slightly. It is 2:37 a.m. He is not fine, thank you.

He tries to keep his thoughts focused on Sydney. How is she? Will they make her go straight to debrief? How does she feel about him, now?

He wants to see her, but fears it at the same time. What if everything that happened today didn't change a thing? What if he destroyed things so terribly they can't ever be repaired?

And then there is —

His father's forehead, his father's face, the face from all those pictures in his mother's house, from his memories, the big red hole and the blood seeping out, pooling around the body, running in rivers down the old wood gymnasium floor.

Alive and then dead and he never loved you and everything you knew was wrong. Everything was a lie, all the choices you made, all the things you did, thinking he was something he wasn't. Everything because of the father you thought he was, the man you thought he was, the death you thought he died. Defining moment of your life, null and void.

The lights outside the window are gone, the plane pitching up and down, hard. If it were daylight perhaps he could see the mountains. Of course she'll talk to him. So much has happened.

He leans his head against the window, closes his eyes. He is exhausted, feels the dull ache of it seeping through his body. But he knows he will not sleep.

Wrong. Everything you knew was wrong.

———

They're met at the gate by two junior agents from the JTF. Come with us, please, and they walk two steps behind. The airport less full now than he's used to, but nowhere near empty. Too many international flights in and out at odd hours for that.

Weiss turns to him. "How are you doing?"

"About the same, I guess. I don't know."

"You sleep at all on the plane?" Weiss had been gone until well after landing, when Vaughn finally leaned over the aisle and shook his shoulder.

"Not really."

"This way, please." One of the agents in front turns out a side security door, to a small strip of parking spaces Vaughn didn't know existed. The agents walk up to the lone car there, a big black Lincoln Towncar.

Vaughn and Weiss in the back, and they're speeding away from the airport within minutes.

"Are we going straight into debrief?" Vaughn asks.

"Not quite," answers the agent in the passenger seat. The man has yet to offer a name, and Vaughn can't remember if he is supposed to know it. "Top folks are otherwise occupied for awhile. Your debrief's been scheduled for seven. We have to take you back to the rotunda, but we can have food brought in, if you want. You can use the beds in Medical Services, too, if you want to try to get some sleep."

It occurs to him that they're under loose custody. "Thanks. Do you know anything about Agent Bristow? How is she doing?"

"In debrief, I think."

He nods, the need to see her suddenly stronger, overwhelming the fear.

———

Devlin runs the debrief.

"Agent Vaughn, we'd like you to start with how you came to be in Chicago yesterday."

It is 7:02 by Vaughn's watch. The same conference room Kendall used for their disciplinary hearing. Only three across the table now — Devlin and two men in from Langley, suited and remarkably unrumpled after what must have been an overnight flight in. The beginnings of dawn streaming through the narrow slit window near the ceiling. He sits alone; Weiss in a separate debrief.

His mind feels sluggish, ineffective — nothing close to sleep in the two hours he'd laid on a cot in Medical Services. "I had contacted Director Kendall; I wanted to transfer back to the Task Force. He said I could, as long as my relationship with Agent Bristow was over. It was, but he said they needed confirmation from Sydney, and they hadn't been able to reach her using her cell phone and pager. That was weird — I thought that was weird. I've never known Sydney to not respond. So I went looking for her."

"In Chicago?" One of the suits, who'd introduced himself as an assistant director, Counterintelligence.

"No. I wasn't able to find her. Will Tippin called me, hours after I'd heard she was missing. He told me that someone had contacted her, and told her they'd kidnapped her friend, Francie. Sydney called her mother to get a location, and her mother knew — I guess that makes sense now, considering, but anyway, Sydney recruited Will to go help her try to rescue Francie."

"She didn't contact you?"

"I — no. We'd had a fight the night before, over my decision to come back to the JTF. She asked Will instead." It hurts even now to say it, to think that she was so angry at him, so hurt, she asked Will instead of him. Did she actually think he wouldn't help her? "She'd gone into this school, the school where everything happened, and she hadn't come out. So Will called me."

"And you decided to fly to Chicago by yourself and conduct a rogue operation instead of contacting the CIA?"

"There were suspicions that there was a mole." He looks to Devlin, for support. Devlin's eyes are kind, but he won't provide any backup. "We didn't know who to trust. And we didn't think Kendall would authorize an operation. Which, in retrospect, I guess was right. Weiss was the only person I knew I could trust. I tried to contact Jack Bristow, but I couldn't reach him, obviously."

"So you arrived in Chicago, and then what?" Devlin, this time.

"We went in. We didn't have any intel, and the only backup we had was Will on comms, but we didn't want to waste any more time. It took us awhile to find them. They were all in the gymnasium of this school — all those people. Sloane, Derevko, Sark, they were easy enough to believe. But there were high-ranking officials from Mi5, SVR, FBI. Kendall, Jack Bristow — "

"We'll expect a complete list of who you suspect was there in your written statement," the Langley suit interrupts.

"Of course." _You'll already know a lot of them from the bodies you recovered._ "Obviously, the hardest one to believe was my father."

"You're certain it was your father?" Devlin asks.

"Yes. He looked just like he would, sounded like him. And there had been — I was having some doubts about his record here."

"What do you mean, doubts?"

"My father kept a journal. He would write about some of his missions. I found the journals when I was a kid and started reading them. I knew it was a security breach after I joined the Agency, that he had written some of the things he did in them, but I always thought it was harmless. It was so long ago." He pauses. "When I was transferred to Counterintelligence, my security clearance allowed me to read some files on my father that I hadn't had access to before. I found there were discrepancies between what my father said in the journals and what happened according to the official records."

"We'll need to see those journals," Devlin says.

"They're in my desk drawer at headquarters."

Devlin nods. "I'll send someone for them."

"Okay. I learned later that the JTF suspected my father was still alive, that he had been heading SD-2 up until the demise of the Alliance. I guess it shouldn't have been surprising to see him standing there, but it was still a shock."

"What were they all doing there?" Langley suit asks.

"They were — they had Sydney hooked up to some sort of Rambaldi device they'd assembled. My father explained it to me; it was supposed to bring eternal life. They turned that thing on and it did — whatever it would have done to her, and that somehow was the formula for eternal life. He said it all started with Sloane, back in the '70s. He'd found Rambaldi manuscripts on a mission and showed them to my father and Jack Bristow. Apparently they detailed some of this formula for eternal life. They made a pact to stick together, to do whatever it took to do it."

"We've heard the audiotape," Devlin says. "You'll need to go into detail in your written statement, but you can skip ahead, now."

"Audiotape?"

"Will Tippin recorded everything that came over your comm links. We've already heard what your father said. We're unclear as to how they selected Sydney Bristow as the person required to bring everything about."

"They found a Rambaldi document — they showed it to us. It contained a DNA profile. I should have told you before — when I was working with the FBI, doing counterintelligence, one of their agents told me Sydney's file had been pulled. They didn't know who. But it included her DNA profile. I didn't know who to contact — I thought there might be a mole. So I called Jack Bristow. He told me at the time that he'd had doubts that he was actually Sydney's father, and so he'd pulled her DNA profile to run a paternity test. I know now that it's because they'd asked him to, to see if Sydney was a match to the person referenced in the document. They already suspected her because of the prophecy."

"And?"

"They showed us the documents. She was a perfect match. I still don't understand that part."

"We may not ever understand it," Devlin says. "You tried to convince your father not to move forward with this — process?"

"Yes. I don't know what I was thinking. They'd been working towards this for years. Nothing I said could have convinced him. But the ones I couldn't believe were Irina and Jack, that they could just kill her like that. Obviously, I was wrong about them."

"What do you mean?"

"My father started the process, whatever it was. I knew I couldn't just stand there and watch him kill her, so I was going to go for my gun, on the floor. I was going to try to stop him. But by the time I got to the point where I could take a shot, he'd already been hit. Irina and Jack, they opened fire on the other people in the group. I guess they'd planned all along to save her. Having me and Weiss there just made the numbers a little better."

"Do you know who killed your father?"

"Derevko. She was the one aiming at him. After that, I'm not quite sure who hit who, except for the men I killed."

"Including Arvin Sloane."

"Yes. I was going to help Sydney, but Derevko, she pointed to Sloane. He was trying to escape with his wife. I don't know how she was alive; I'm guessing he faked her death. But she was bad — the cancer — and she was in a wheelchair. He was trying to wheel her out a side door. I followed. I yelled at him to freeze, but he just kept going, and I knew he was shoot to kill. So I took the shot."

"We recovered his body, as well as Emily's," Devlin says. "Based on the position of the body, the Bureau said it looked like she'd killed herself?"

"Yes. I was on my way back into the gymnasium — I heard the shot. There was no one else in the area."

Devlin scribbles a note on the file in front of him. His pen is glossy black, heavy. Expensive. "You continued on your way to the gymnasium?"

"Yeah. By the time I got back, everything was over. Derevko and Jack Bristow had taken Sydney. I saw them before I went after Sloane. Agent Weiss had been hit in the vest, so I went to assist him, and then the Bureau team came in."

Devlin nods again, scribbles a bit more on the folder. Caps his pen and looks up. "I suppose you're wondering about Francie Calfo?"

"Yes. Was she a mole in Sydney's life, all this time?"

"No. You're aware of Markovic's device, yes?" Devlin doesn't wait for a response. "We believe the woman you saw was the second double."

Oh god, Sydney. "What makes you think that?"

"Based on Agent Bristow's debrief. You know that they lured her there under the pretense that Francie Calfo had been kidnapped. Agent Bristow freed the woman she thought was her friend, and that woman sedated her. She says that when she woke, the woman told her Francie was dead, and had been for several weeks."

This will kill her. It will hurt her so bad.

"You had met Francie, correct?"

"Yes." _God, her best friend —_

"Did you suspect anything?"

"No. I'm not even sure that I knew the real Francie, actually. I guess I did find her a little odd, but I didn't really know enough to know that it wasn't her. And I know Sydney thought she was acting strangely, but she thought it was because Francie had just started dating Will Tippin. That wasn't a coincidence, was it? Francie — whoever she was — she knew Will worked for the CIA, didn't she?"

"Yes. We've done an extensive debrief with Tippin to try to determine just how much of a breach there might have been," Devlin says. "You should also know that we sent a team to sweep Agent Bristow's apartment. They found several bugs and a surveillance camera."

"Where?"

"The camera was in her bedroom. The bugs were scattered throughout the apartment. Did the two of you ever speak of Agency operations in her home?"

He looks down at the table, cheeks hot. Somebody out there was watching them. All those moments, all those times together, not private at all. "Nothing more specific than maybe saying where we were going."

"Good. If you think of anything else that might have been overheard, we'll need you to report it," Devlin says. "Now, our obvious suspicion is that the real Francie Calfo is dead. We're searching for a body and checking local morgues for a match on a Jane Doe, but it's likely we'll never recover any remains."

"If you don't find a body, what will you do?"

"We've planned an operation that would fake Miss Calfo's death such that a body would be unrecoverable. If necessary, we'll move forward on that. It would be stupid for the double to attempt to return to her life as Francie Calfo."

Devlin glances down at the files on the table. "One final thing. Your father's remains are being transported to Los Angeles this afternoon. We'll be performing an autopsy tomorrow morning. Ordinarily, we would bury the body as a John Doe after that, but as his son, since you have a security clearance, you may make alternate arrangements, within reason. This would not include informing anyone without proper clearance of his death."

"You can do whatever you want with the remains," he says. "I guess — I would like to know where and when the burial would be, though."

Devlin nods. "We'll have someone contact you with that information. Now, I believe we've covered everything we needed to cover here. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss or bring to the Agency's attention?"

"No, sir. Nothing I can think of."

"Okay. Given the magnitude of the news about your father, and his subsequent death, we've decided to place you on one month's bereavement leave, effective after you turn in your written report. You will be required to attend counseling three times a week during this period. We have approved your prior request for transfer back to the Joint Task Force, if you still want it."

"Yes, I'd still like the transfer."

"Good. You'll be credentialed immediately for the building, then, and you can schedule your counseling appointments with Dr. Barnett here. You'll begin working here full-time when you return."

"Okay."

"I believe that's it, Agent Vaughn. We'll expect a much more thorough report in your written statement." He pauses. "Aside from former AD Kendall and Jack Bristow, we've identified at least four ranking officers of the CIA and two from the FBI who were involved in this Rambaldi conspiracy. Our investigation into such a massive breach will be ongoing, and we will expect you to return for future interviews as necessary."

"Of course."

He stands slowly, through a wave of fatigue, and returns to the rotunda, full already. He scans the place, looking for Sydney, but finds only Weiss, hunched over a computer monitor across the circle. _She's probably long gone._

The desk next to Weiss' is unoccupied. He takes its chair and rolls it over. Sits, weary.

"Hey, how are you holding up?" Weiss asks.

"I don't even know anymore."

"Is your debrief over, or are you just on break?"

"It's over. And apparently I'm on a one-month break."

"Good. It's all — they told you about Francie, right?"

"Yeah. I don't know how Syd's going to deal with that. She's got to be — is she still here?"

"No. Marshall told me they released her and Will around midnight."

"I should go see her."

"You're not going anywhere by yourself, Mike. You want to go see Syd, I'll drive you, and I'll stay as long as you want me to, but there's no way you should be driving right now."

Vaughn nods. "I've got to do my written report before I can leave."

"I'm about done with mine, so just let me know when you're ready to go."

"Okay."

———

It is nearing noon by the time he follows Weiss out to the parking garage, new ID badge in hand.

"I had them take your car back to your apartment," Weiss explains as Vaughn climbs into the passenger side of his car. Government sedan, nearly the same model as Vaughn's, dark blue instead of green.

Weiss drives almost leisurely, a contrast to their race through Chicago. The sun is bright, nearly blinding; his sunglasses left in the overhead compartment in his car. He shades the sun with his hand, but it's a poor substitute.

Weiss puts the car into park in her driveway, turns it off.

"I don't know how long this is going to take," Vaughn says. "We didn't leave things very well, the last time we talked."

"A lot has changed since then."

"I know. I'm not sure if it makes a difference, though."

Out of the car, up the front walk, gathering himself. _You're here for her, if she needs you. And if she doesn't, if she's still angry, then you leave. It's her choice. But you've at least got to try. You've got to be here._

He knocks on the door and waits, running a hand over the stubble on his chin. He must look like hell; they'd been able to shower at Medical Services, but he's still wearing the black pants and jacket from yesterday, and surely there are bags under his eyes, fatigue on his face.

It takes a long time for the door to open, Will Tippin on the other side.

And you thought you looked like hell.

"Hi." Will's face and eyes are red, his voice hoarse. Francie was just as good a friend to Will, he realizes, and then maybe a girlfriend, maybe not. Will won't ever know if the person he started dating was really Francie.

What a horrible way to lose a friend. "Hi. Is Sydney here? Can I see her?"

"She's sleeping now. You can wait for her, though, if you want."

Vaughn shakes his head — this must be a dismissal. "No, that's okay. I'll, uh, I'll come back later. Tell her to call me if she needs me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

He spins around before Will can even close the door, before the tears in his eyes become too obvious.He knew this might — probably would — happen, and still it hurts.

Maybe Will is better for her now. They both knew Francie — they can grieve her together. Vaughn can't even be sure he met the real Francie.

Weiss waits to start the car when he gets back inside. "You want to talk about it?"

"Will said she was sleeping. I don't know if that was the truth or not. I didn't want to push it."

Weiss shakes his head. "You want to go home?"

"Yeah, home."

———

It takes 15 minutes of blinding sun to get to his apartment.

Weiss puts the car in park on the street, only speaks when Vaughn is about to get out, door hovering half-open. "You going to be okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, obviously I have a lot to sort through, with my father, but I'll deal."

"And Sydney?"

"I don't know."

"It'll work out, Mike. It might just take some time," Weiss says. "I'll call you later to check up."

"Okay." Vaughn rises, starts to walk away, turns at the sound of his name.

"Mike?"

"What?"

"You're going to get through this, you know."

"Yeah, somehow."

He longs especially now for Donovan's scamper to the door when he walks into the apartment. Instead, nothing but empty rooms in a place that feels foreign after everything that's happened.

He lets keys slip from his hand, clunk on the floor. Wanders, directionless, into the kitchen. It's been so long since he's slept, he knows he should try to go to bed. But he no longer feels tired — just disconnected, stiff.

Perhaps he'll have a drink instead. Ice, tumbler, a fairly substantial pour of Jameson, pulled from his moderately sparse liquor cabinet. Something he'd picked up from his father, sitting in front of the fireplace at the old house with his little tumbler of whiskey. That thought very nearly makes him throw the bottle across the room, but he does not. There would be a mess, then, to clean up, and he may need the alcohol.

Living room, television on, volume low. He slumps down into the couch, sips his drink dully.

What if she never talks to you? What if you've lost her forever?

———

He wakes to his cell phone ringing, still in his pants pocket. Checks his watch, estimates he'd dozed for maybe an hour after sitting there for three or four, waiting for sleep to come, working his way through another drink.

Fumbling through the zipper on the cargo pocket to his pants — he really needs to change — and pulling out the phone. The caller ID is "uknown," a deliberate misspelling, code for the CIA's phone software.

He hasn't had a call from there in months.

He hits the send button, listens through a series of tones, programmed to indicate a meeting place and time. Pier, 1900 hours, he translates. The software disconnects.

The access code was Sydney's.But why use the phone system, the meet codes? Why not just call him?

Maybe she doesn't know how else to reach out. Maybe she's stumbling, same as you.

He is still exhausted — that hour on the couch seems to have made things worse instead of better — and still feeling the whiskey. But he doesn't want to call Weiss; needs to go alone for this.

He heads upstairs to change.

———

He arrives 15 minutes early. This was customary, back when he was her handler. Get there early, sweep for bugs in the warehouse, scope for surveillance if they were meeting in public.

He is here early this time to prepare, to stand here at the railing and stare out over the ocean and wonder what he can possibly say to her. It is chilly, even for February — or maybe it's March, now, he's lost track of the calendar — seeping through the jeans and turtleneck he'd changed into, the wool coat he'd grabbed on his way out the door.

The cold has kept the place largely uncrowded, a few young couples, one family walking along, far from his spot on the railing. Not like some of the times they'd met here and he'd been so tense — so many people, any one of them could have been Security Section.

They should have come down here and walked sometime, here in the nicest of their old meeting places. Strolled along hand-in-hand and watched something like the sunset beginning on the horizon now, smelled the salt air, listened to the gulls, the distant screams from the roller coaster.

You still could, if she'd have you back.

He glances down at his watch. 6:56. _What will you say to her? What can you say, really?_

Footsteps on the wood behind him. He turns, and —

Irina Derevko, not Sydney, approaching. _Of course. You should have figured._

She wears a long, thin black coat. The cut, the drape, the fabric all suggest that it wasn't cheap. Her hands deep in the pockets, until she's a few steps away and one hand comes out, pulls the coat open. Reveals the other hand pointing a gun at him through a slit cut in the pocket.

He tenses. The FBI took both of his guns for ballistics analysis, trying to determine who had shot who as best they could. He hadn't thought to ask for a replacement, hadn't thought he would need one this soon.

She stops a few feet away from him, standing against the rail, eyes briefly down to the gun. "I'll make this easier for you, Mr. Vaughn. No moral dilemma."

No need to feel as if he should try to apprehend her, he realizes, relaxing slightly. She has no intentions of shooting him — probably — but now he can say he was held at gunpoint, unarmed.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you knew our meet protocol," he says. He realizes he no longer holds the same hate for her, no longer has a reason to want to kill her. Yes, she killed his father, but he was about to do it himself. She saved him from that, and maybe he should even be grateful. "Why are you here?"

She is silent for a long while, staring out over the water, hair whipping in the wind, looking a lot like Sydney. He has never allowed himself to think that about her, before now.

"When I first came to America, first began my assignment, I used to go to the ocean all the time," she says. "A young, homesick girl. When Jack was away on missions, I would drive out to the beach at Ocean City, stare out over the water and think, 'my country is somewhere over there.'"

The words startle him. She hasn't been a woman with a country for a very long time.

"It surprised me," she continues. "How quickly my family became a home. What William — what your father did to me back then, forcing me to tell Jack, to join them — I didn't see it as blackmail, although I suppose that's what it was. I saw it as a chance to live with my family forever. I would have sacrificed everything for that. Easily a country I hardly knew."

"You still left them." _Same as he did. Only she came back, eventually._

"I had no choice. My handlers knew the FBI was drawing closer to my identity. They ordered an extraction. If I had tried to stay, they would have killed us all."

"But you stayed true to this pact."

"Yes, I did. Up until the end."

"When they wanted you to kill Sydney."

"Jack and I developed a plan when the group first thought she might be the subject Rambaldi required. We were concerned that the group would notice we began working against them, but they were too blinded by their own greed."

"And that was your plan? You were outnumbered. What if they killed you before you could save her? Wouldn't it have been safer to send her away? Someplace safe?"

"You know my daughter very well, Mr. Vaughn. Do you think she would have willingly gone into hiding?"

He recalls the times he'd tried to get Sydney to at least consider witness protection. "No."

"Of course not. And even if she did, Jack and I knew they would blame us, kill us, and then spend the rest of their lives hunting her down. With their combined resources, it would have just been a matter of time. No — we decided we had to make a stand."

"Thank you for that," he says. "For saving her life." He looks her straight in the eyes, something that had made him sick before, all those months ago. Going to her and believing she'd been the one who killed his father, drastically changed his life, put the hole in his family. But she wasn't any of that.

"You thought I was willing to kill her, didn't you?"

"I didn't know what else to think."

You believed it fully, that she was evil incarnate. Believed it there yesterday, that she was willing to kill her own daughter. And what was she, really? A spy, yes. A criminal, a liar, a murderer. But also a woman who loved her child, who protected her, who went in there outnumbered, knowing she might die doing it.

"I've killed people as part of this quest. Those other agents, besides your father — they were not all ordered by the KGB. I would have killed again, if it were anyone other than my daughter up there — or Jack."

No, evil is someone who would take Sydney, would kill her without a second thought. Kill her knowing his son loved her. After walking away for 26 years, with maybe no intention of ever returning. He probably would have killed you, if Rambaldi had pegged you instead.

"If it were me, and the roles were reversed — if it were Sydney asking you to spare someone she loved, would you do it?"

"You compare me to your father. Don't." She pauses, appears to be considering the question anyway. "I don't think any of us can answer that question until we're in that situation."

Silence.

He thinks through all the things he should ask, all the things he wants to know. This may be his only chance for answers.

"There were discrepancies between my father's journals and his mission debriefs. Do you know anything about that?"

"Yes," she says. "After your father was assigned to Station Paris, it was much more difficult for all of us to communicate. Jack and I began to take vacations in Europe; I started work on a research paper that would have required some study in London. We would take the train, go and have tea with your parents. At some point, I would find a way to slip upstairs and read your father's journal. If he had anything, he would indicate it there."

"'I think I'll take Michael to the park tomorrow.'"

"That was code for a dead drop. Your town's park had an old apple tree with a section in the trunk William had hollowed out. He would leave things for us there."

"I lived 35 years thinking he was a good man — the most just man I'd ever heard of. And now I find out that every good memory, every just thing he ever did, wasn't that at all."

"People are rarely who we think they are."

He wraps his hands around the railing, looks down at the water. "What about Jack?"

"I imagine Jack will resurface at the CIA shortly, with a tale of how he was working to thwart our plans all along."

"Would that be the truth?"

She smiles, a long, thin Cheshire cat thing, then her face sobers. "How is Sydney? She was sleeping when we left her at the hospital."

"She checked out fine with the doctors. She was asleep when I went to see her — "

"Something happened between the two of you, didn't it? You had a falling out?"

He nods.

"I thought it was strange that she came without you," she says. "But then, I had wondered what the professional separation would do to the two of you. It drove you crazy, didn't it? Watching her go off on missions when you weren't there to protect her."

He says nothing. She must know the answer is yes.

"Only a fool would push her away because he was afraid of losing her."

"It isn't that simple."

She glances out over the ocean for a moment, then turns back to face him. The wind snaps a section of hair across her face, and she reaches up, tucks it behind her ear.

"She doesn't need your protection, Mr. Vaughn. She needs your support."

And then she is walking away. Turning after a few steps, some item from her agenda overlooked, perhaps.

"Do know this. He loved you and your mother very much."

That only makes it worse, he thinks, watching her walk away, both hands in her pockets, only makes it harder.

And yet somewhere, deep down, he still feels it is the truth.

———

He gets into his car, decides he will go see Sydney, and this time if Will says she is sleeping, he will wait, because Irina is right. He needs to at least talk to her, offer to be there for her. And if she turns him down, asks him to leave, at least he'll have tried. At least he will know.

Weiss calls a few minutes into I-10, asks how he's doing.

"I don't know. About the same, I guess."

"Where are you?"

He could lie, say he's at home. He'd rather not. "On my way over to Syd's."

"Have you been asleep since I dropped you off? Because otherwise, I thought I said you shouldn't be driving."

"I'm fine. I'm almost there."

"Do me a favor and stay over there."

"I'll try."

"I'm serious. You call me if you need anything. Even if it's just another ride home."

"Okay. Goodbye."

"Bye."

He hits end, places the phone back in his coat pocket. Turns on the radio, flipping stations, looking for a distraction. Maybe this is a mistake; surely she would have called if she wanted to see him.

No. You have to see this through.

Her street is dark, quiet now. Cars lined up along the street, everyone inside for a nice Sunday evening at home.

She'll know he's coming, if she's really awake — see his headlights down the street, pulling into the driveway. He takes his time putting the car in park, turning it off, getting out. Hits the lock button on his keys just once, so the alarm won't chirp, won't reveal his presence any more than everything else already has. Any time she has to know he's coming is time she can think of ways to tell him to leave.

Up to the door. He puts his keys in his coat pocket. Deep breath, firm knock. Waiting —

The door eases open, reveals Sydney, standing there in pajamas.

"Syd — hi."

"Hi." She reaches up, runs her fingers through her hair, righting a section that's flipped over to the wrong side. "Will said you stopped by. He's out for a walk now — I think he's still in shock."

"I guess maybe we all are." It seems inadequate as soon as he says it, and he stands, uneasy, pushes his hands deep into his pockets.

"Would you like to come in?"

"Do you want me to come in?"

She nods, and presses her lips together, blinks a little too fast. Steps away from the door to let him inside.

"Would you like something to drink, or anything?"

It's an absurd display of hospitality, given everything, but then nobody's really sure what to say or do here. "Sure. Why don't you go sit down, and I'll put some tea on?"

"Okay."

———

The kitchen is trashed.

A gallon of milk, three-quarters full, sits warm on the counter. It can't have been there for long — they must have got in sometime last night, not long enough to do this, but obviously they have. He puts the milk back in the refrigerator and fills the teapot with filtered water from the fridge.

There are dirty dishes strewn across the counter, the sink, filled with hardly eaten food. A half-empty liter of Absolut sits front and center. Beside that a wine glass which someone — _not Sydney, is it?_ — has commandeered as an ashtray. Full to the brim with cigarette butts. It smells like smoke.

He places the teapot on a burner and turns on the stove, then starts on the mess; he can at least get all the dishes in the sink, not that they'll likely notice. The teapot whistles soon enough, and he pulls two clean mugs from the cabinet, searches until he finds two packets of her favorite green, and makes their tea.

He takes careful steps through the living room, watching the mugs to make sure the tea doesn't splash over the brims. He sets both of them coffee table, sits down next to her. A good two feet between them on the couch, both of them facing forward.

He looks at her, and waits. Should he speak first?

She turns toward him, finally. "I thought I saved her," she whispers. "I went into the school; they had her in one of the rooms, tied to this chair — "

"We saw it, the chair."

She nods. "She was sitting there, and she seemed so frightened, and I remember thinking, 'how could I do this — how could I drag another innocent into this life?'" She is fighting tears already. It would be bold, so bold, to grab her hand now, but he should.

He does; she doesn't resist. "I took my knife, cut the ropes, the gag they had on her mouth. I told her she was safe now, and I was so sorry. She didn't say anything — she just stood up and hugged me. And then she stabbed me in the back with a syringe full of barbiturates."

"Oh god, Syd." He squeezes her hand.

"I woke up strapped to that — thing. Francie, or who I thought was Francie, she was standing there in front of me. She told me I was too late to save my friend, that Francie had been dead for weeks. 'It is impressive to see such loyalty' — that's what she said to me. She said they never doubted I'd come for her. It was all a trap, to get me there — to kill me. She's been dead for weeks, Vaughn, for weeks. I dragged her into this world, just by being her friend, and I didn't even know she was killed, and replaced by some impostor, and — "

"Sydney, you can't blame yourself for what happened."

"No, I can. If I hadn't become a part of this world, none of the people I loved would have died."

"You can't honestly believe that, Syd. You saw all of those people in that room — your mother, your father. You would have been a part of this whether you chose to or not. You want to blame someone, blame Arvin Sloane." _Blame my father._

"They told me that he's dead," she says. "That you killed him."

"Yes." _He's dead, Sydney, and it's too late, but he's never going to hurt you again._ "So is Emily."

"They told me that, too. I hadn't — I barely knew she was alive. I don't understand how someone as good as her could love him, could kill herself over him."

"I think it was as much about her future as it was her husband, Syd. She didn't have much time left, and it wasn't going to be good time."

She is silent for awhile. "It doesn't feel like I thought it would."

"What?"

"His death. Revenge, I guess," she says. "I wanted revenge, I spent all this time trying to bring Sloane to justice, and all it did in the end was bring more death, ruin more lives."

"Sydney, I told you. You can't blame yourself for this."

She looks straight into him, her chin quivering as the first tears roll down her cheeks, as if to say _I can't not blame myself for this_.

He slides closer, tentatively pulls her to him, her face pressed tight against his shoulder. Murmuring into her ear, repeating: "It's not your fault, Sydney. It's not your fault."

They stay like this for so long it frightens him; he's never seen her cry like this before, seen her lose control completely instead of sucking it up after a few minutes, wiping her eyes dry and faking a smile. Compartmentalizing, she calls it.

There is none of that here. Still sobbing softly in short little gasps, her arms tight around his back, trying to pull him as close as she possibly can. He should have come here earlier. He should have waited the first time.

Her hands slip from his back a bit, her weight against his chest even firmer. If they were still together, he would be sure she wanted him to lay back, lay there on the couch and hold her. But could she want that here, now, after everything?

There are two thick pillows stacked against the arm of the couch, not too far away. He leans back, just a bit, and she follows, and it was what she wanted, and it is okay. She is upset, tired. They are both tired.

Further, further, until his back sinks into the pillows and she settles, still crying, with her head resting on his chest.

His arms tight around her, still whispering. "It's not your fault, Syd. It's not your fault."

This has all been too much.


	14. 2x2: Evidence

Chapter 2.2 — Evidence

Monday, March 2, 2003

He wakes, disoriented, used to the feel of a thin couch cushion but not the shadow shapes around him. It takes a moment to register that he's in Sydney's living room, dawn just coming through the windows — he must have fallen asleep. Someone, probably Sydney, has covered him with a blanket.

He glances over to the chair, and she is sitting there, watching him. Apparently lost in her thoughts; there is a lag before she notices he is awake.

"Hi." She gives him a vacant smile.

"Hi." He feels prone with her sitting there above him. Rises and tosses the blanket over the back of the couch.

"We fell asleep."

"I'm sorry. You should have woke me when you got up. I didn't mean to — "

"When's the last time you slept, Vaughn? Really slept?"

"I don't really know."

"You can't keep doing that," she says, shaking her head. "Would you like some coffee? I was going to put some on."

"Coffee would be good. Thanks."

He follows her to the kitchen, leans back against the counter there and watches her assemble grounds, filter, water. She turns around after she's finished, crosses her arms and looks down at the floor.

"Thank you for going in there, after me."

Why did I have to, Sydney? Why didn't I go in with you? Why did you go to Will Tippin, of all people, instead of me?

Easy. She's hurting. You both are. "I don't understand why you didn't come to me for help in the first place."

"I didn't think — with everything that happened, I didn't know how to go to you."

You can always come to me. You have to know that. How can you not know that? How could you just discount the last two years?

"Sydney, whatever happens between us, you have to know that I will always do whatever I can to keep you safe. That's not ever going to change — it's what leaving you was about in the first place. But you can't do that again, just take off like that. I can't go through that again."

"I know," she says. The water begins to drip from the coffee pot behind her.

There's more he should say, more they should say about what happened between them. But they are not ready for that, not yet.

"Everything's kind of hazy," she says. "But I remember watching you go for your gun. Were you going to kill him?"

He sees the blood, the old wood floor, the body, can't speak.

"I'm sorry," she says. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to — "

"No, it's okay," he says. "I was going to try."

"Vaughn — how are you holding up? Do you want to talk about it?"

The pot gurgles loud through the last of the coffee. Neither of them makes a move to find mugs.

"There isn't much to talk about. For 26 years, I've carried around this image of who my father was. A hero, a patriot, a good man, killed in the line of duty. He wasn't any of those things."

"He was still your father."

"The father I knew died when I was eight. The man that died in that gym — I have no idea who he was. I don't even feel like I lost him. I feel like I lost my history."

"I know."

Yes, yes she does. "At least you got a chance to interact with your mother for more than a few minutes."

"Yes. But she's never come up with any answers. Even now." She uncrosses her arms, clasps her hands in front of her.

"You know she loves you."

"I think your father loved you too, Vaughn."

"How can you love someone — love a family — that much and stay gone for that long? Maybe he loved us, but he loved the quest more."

"You don't know that."

"I don't know what else to think. He was gone for 26 years and never once attempted to make contact. At least your mother came back." He starts to search the cabinets behind him for clean mugs. "I've spent my whole life trying to follow in my father's footsteps, to do things that would have made him proud. How phony does that make me?"

He finds a stash of mismatched mugs in the back of the top cabinet. Pulls out two and turns to find her a few feet away from him.

"It doesn't make you phony, Vaughn. It just makes you a good person, regardless of how or why you got there." Her hand in the space between them, hovering there for a moment before she touches his arm. "I know how you feel, though. Losing a parent when you're that young — it shapes your life. And then to find out you didn't really lose that parent — it shakes you. But the grief and the pain you went through are still real. You can't let yourself forget that."

He wants her to step closer, to slip her arms around him, hold him there, let him lose himself in her for a little while. But he will not take the first step. Here, in the daylight, it is harder.

Her arm slips from his shoulder, falls to her side.

"I've been trying to figure out what I should tell my mom — if I should even tell her anything at all," he says. "She believes the same thing that I did, I'm almost certain — that he was a good man who died in the line of duty in 1976. And I could let her go on believing that, and spare her the pain of learning the truth, but it would mean I'd have to lie to her."

"Vaughn, think about how you felt when I told you I'd known your father was alive."

"I do, Syd, I do. Then I think about how I felt when I found out what kind of person he really was. And she would never know. There would be no way for her to find out."

"But you'd know."

"Yeah. And I'd have to keep reminiscing fondly with her about a man I think I hate." He steps past her, sits the mugs down on the counter and pours two cups of coffee. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do."

The milk he put away last night is still on the top refrigerator shelf. He pulls it out and splashes a little into both cups, puts the milk back into the fridge and hands her a cup, fingers brushing in the transfer.

"How are you doing, Syd?"

She leans back against the counter. "They're going to create a car accident today, to fake Francie's death. I have to be ready for when they tell her parents — they'll probably call here first."

"Are you ready?"

"I don't know."

"I can be here, if you want," he says. "I'm going to have to go in to work, at least for a little while. They're doing my father's autopsy today and I'm going to have to file a contact report — your mother paid me a visit last night. There are some parts of our conversation that I won't share, Syd, but I do want to report it. I'm tired of lying to the CIA."

She nods. "It's okay."

"She's probably long gone, but I imagine she'll do the same for you, eventually," he says. "I don't doubt that she's on your side, but just be careful."

"Yeah. The Agency already warned me about her — about all of them, trying to come back for me."

"What time are they going to call Francie's parents?"

"They said around two. They're taking her car at one."

"I can stop by a little before one — if you want me to."

"If it's not too much trouble."

"It's not, Syd." He drains the rest of his coffee, still hot, burning his mouth, throat. "I should get going."

"I'll take that." She steps closer, pulls the mug from his hand. She is so close, he should do something, hug her goodbye at least —

She steps away. Walks to the sink, sets the cup on top of the other dishes with a loud clink. "Goodbye," over her shoulder, and then she turns on the faucet, water streaming over the mess.

"Bye, Syd."

She remains in the kitchen as he walks to the door, alone.

———

He finds himself driving to the JTF in rush hour traffic; he'd forgotten it was Monday. Over to his apartment only long enough to shower, shave, change, then back on the road, into this mess.

Finally into the parking garage, down two levels. Through the sliding door with his new access card, a short tunnel and then the small, well-lit lot for JTF employees, already nearly full.

He finds a spot near the back, thumbs remote keyless halfway to the door, wondering — as always — why he bothers to lock the car here, of all places.

In easily with the new access card and his right hand on the biometric scanner. Through the corridor and into the rotunda, feeling like a stranger. He walks straight towards Weiss, already looking rumpled, hunched over his computer.

"Hey."

Weiss turns. "What the hell are you doing here? You should be at home. Did you not get the whole 'one-month leave' thing?"

"My father's autopsy is today, and I'm going to have to fill out a contact report — Irina Derevko decided to pay me a visit last night. Plus I've got my first session with Barnett."

"You sure you need to see the autopsy results? It's pretty obvious what killed him."

"I know. I just feel like I need the closure, I guess. I'm not going to stay all day — I've got to be back at Syd's before one."

"So you had better luck last night?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Weiss says. "How is she doing?"

"She's holding up. That's about all any of us can ask for right now."

Weiss nods. "You can use her desk — Sydney's — for your contact report. I guess they'll get you one when you're officially back."

Sydney's desk is two away from Weiss'. He starts in that direction, calls a thanks over his shoulder.

They will start the autopsy soon, if they haven't already. He hadn't asked if he could be present — they would never allow it.

Not that you could have handled it if they did.

———

Weiss walks up to his spot at Sydney's desk a few hours later, holding a file folder, looking distressed.

Vaughn saves his report, rises. "What's going on?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"Believe what?"

"They found two bullets, in your father's brain. At first, they thought Irina and Jack, or maybe Irina got two shots off. But the ballistics don't match. The angle's all wrong — it was fired from above, probably the balcony. And the bullet was .22 caliber — definitely from a rifle, not either of their guns. Straight-up .22, not .223."

"How do they know?"

"They're a little different size, apparently. Plus .223 would have gone straight through. They would have found it in the floor."

"Do you think Irina or Jack hired a sniper as backup? I thought it was strange that they would just go it alone."

"That's what I'd guess, except for the bullet. It makes no sense. You use .22 caliber to hunt animals, or shoot tin cans in your backyard — it's for sport shooting, not for a long-range hit. I mean, obviously it killed from that distance, but why not use .223?"

"Maybe they couldn't get .223 for some reason."

"What, they stopped at Wal-Mart and they were out?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't notice anyone up on the balcony, did you?"

"No, but I didn't see the actual shot." _Who was up there? Are they a threat to her?_

"Neither did I," Weiss says. "The shots must have hit almost simultaneously."

Vaughn extends his hand. "Can I see that?"

Weiss shakes his head, pulls the folder closer to his body. "I don't think you should."

"Eric, that's my father in there. It's my — it's Sydney who may be threatened by this extra shooter."

"If he shot your father, I'd guess he's probably on our side. Or Irina and Jack's. Either way, I don't think he's after Sydney."

"But who was he? Why was he there?"

"I don't know, Mike. Obviously there's someone else out there we're going to have to track down. And when we do, we'll ask him. Or maybe you can ask Irina, next time she pays you a visit."

"I don't think she's going to be paying me another visit." Vaughn reaches for the file folder, watches Weiss tighten his grip. "Damn it, Eric. Am I cleared to read that?"

Weiss sighs, slumps his shoulders. "Probably. I'm asking you not to. There are some things in here that are going to be pretty rough. You do what you want, but don't say I didn't warn you."

Weiss snaps the folder into his chest and stalks off.

Vaughn sits, rolls his chair back up to the desk, and opens the folder slowly. He needs to see this, especially now, with some of the explanation for everything unknown, but he knows Weiss was reluctant for good reason.

Oh god.

The first picture, his father laid out on a stainless steel table, face cleaned off so that the hole in his forehead is more distinct.

His body is pale. It must be cold, too, cold and stiff. Someone has closed the eyes.

The next picture is a close-up of the head, the wound, nearly white skin ripping around the red. Just before they started; they'll be cutting by the next shot. They'll show just how they found bullet number one, and then number two behind it.

He steels himself and flips ahead.

———

Weiss breaks his dull focus on the last page of the file with a hand on his shoulder. He pulls the folder from Vaughn's hands, flipping it shut.

Vaughn sits, numb, vaguely aware of his friend, the last few pictures there every time he closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he manages, a whisper.

"I know," Weiss says.

"That's — that one was worse than the fake file, I think. At least in those, it didn't really look like him. It barely looked like a human being."

"It's over, Mike. For real this time. You don't have to look at those anymore."

"But it's not over. Not with this shooter out there. Sark, Francie's double — "

"We'll get them. You just worry about you, and Syd," Weiss says. "Weren't you supposed to have a session with Barnett?"

Vaughn glances at his watch. Five after 11. "Shit, yeah. I'm late."

"Tell her why. That ought to be enough for a first session."

This isn't a joking matter, but he smiles, just a little, not sure if it's more for Weiss or himself.

———

He is nearly 10 minutes late by the time he walks into Judy Barnett's office. He apologizes and sits on the edge of the black leather couch. This office feels just as clinical, but harsher — more blacks and whites and grays, like the rest of the rotunda — than her one at headquarters.

"It's okay," she says, spinning in her desk chair to face him. "I know you have a lot going on right now."

No shit, Sherlock. He tells himself to stay calm; past experience has taught him that anger will only keep him on the couch longer.

She opens a file folder on the top of her desk, looks at him with a wrinkled, sympathetic half-smile. "I've had a chance to review the operational files, and your debrief. We're going to have a lot to go over in these sessions, but I want to start by just chatting. I want you to tell me what your greatest concerns are right now."

"Right now? I'm worried about Sydney — Agent Bristow. She's going to have to bury her best friend. I assume you know what happened to Francie Calfo?"

"Yes."

"She's going through that right now. And we still don't know that she's really safe — they did my father's autopsy this morning and they found two bullets, one from a shooter weren't aware of. I'm afraid it's going to be a long time before we can track down everyone that was there and get that case tied up, so we can be sure there aren't people out there who want her dead."

"And what about your father?"

"My father is a man who obviously wasn't who I thought he was. But he's dead, now, same as he was before. I hardly think that's the most important thing for me to be worrying about right now."

She folds her hands together on the desk. "Agent Vaughn, your father — who you'd thought had been killed in the line of duty for much of your life — turns up not only alive, but working for your enemies. I would think that is a very significant event in your life."

"Yes, it's a significant event. Yes, it was shocking to find out he was still alive. Yes, it hurts that he hadn't contacted us, that he was obviously a horrible person. But there's nothing I can do about it. He's dead again, and that's not going to change."

"And focusing on Sydney, that's something you can do?"

"Yes."

"Michael, I think you're trying to avoid your own grief and pain regarding what happened with your father by focusing on Sydney — "

"Why shouldn't I? Her problems are more significant. She lost a good person in her life."

"Do you not believe your father was a good person?"

"No, not at all." He feels trapped, longs to stand up, run and get out of this place, out into the sunlight, back to Sydney's apartment. "How could he do what he did and still be a good person?"

"Maybe he wasn't entirely good, but don't you think he had some redeeming qualities? His love for you and your mother? I know we've talked before about your father, Michael, and you've had nothing but good memories about him."

"That was before I found out who he really was. This is a man who left his family and never looked back, who was working for an enemy of the United States since, who was willing to kill someone I love for his own selfish purposes. The things I remember as a kid — they're not nearly enough to make up for all the bad."

"You don't think he could have been that good person you remember, corrupted by all of the things around him?"

"Maybe that's what he was, but that doesn't make it any better."

"What would you say hurts you more — the fact that your father had been working for the Alliance and had been involved in this plot, or that he had been alive all of this time and never contacted you or your mother?"

They're inextricable. They're all part of the terrible person he really was. "I — I don't know. They both hurt."

She nods, makes a few notes in the file folder. "That's an acceptable answer for now, but I want you to think about it for our session Wednesday. I think that's enough for our first day."

"Thank you. I'll see you Wednesday." He walks out slowly, a little tired, a little weak.

———

He knocks three times on Sydney's front door, and waits. It is 12:45; he'd wanted a little cushion in case the Agency was early.

No answer. He tries the knob, finds it is open, feels his stomach drop.

Did they come after her so soon?

Still without a gun, he swings the door wide, fists up, ready for whatever might be on the other side.

Nothing but an empty foyer, living room and kitchen. "Sydney?"

Again, louder this time. "Sydney?" He walks down the hallway, creaks open the door to her bedroom. Nothing. The bathroom across the hall empty as well.

He continues down the hallway to the final bedroom — Francie's — and finds the door cracked. He opens it.

She's seated in the middle of the wood floor, surrounded by shoeboxes and piles of pictures, head in her hands, crying.

"Syd." He bends over, pushes some of the pictures out of the way, half-crawling toward her as they skid across the floor. Kneeling in front of her, pulling her to him.

He should never have left. He should have ignored his father's autopsy and told Barnett not today and stayed here with her. And where is Will?

He glances down at the pictures — Francie's, he assumes. Some with Sydney or Will, a few of the three of them together, more featuring people he doesn't know.

Sydney pulls away, holds one picture in a shaking hand. "I thought I should start going through Francie's things — it's all going to have to be packed up for her parents."

"Syd, that can wait until you're ready."

"I know. I just wanted to see her from before," she says, shifting the angle of the photo so he can see the details. Sydney and Francie, much younger, standing together, arms slung across each other's backs, both smiling broadly.

"This was taken at a party," she says. "I remember it — earlier in the week I'd been approached by the recruiter for SD-6 and I was still thinking about it, trying to decide if it was something I wanted to do. I hadn't told anyone about it, but Fran knew something was up. I remember us walking back across campus after the party and her asking me if something was wrong."

She lays the photograph back on the floor, gently, and looks at him. "Anybody else would have looked at me there and saw someone laughing, having a good time, but somehow she knew. I got better at lying to her throughout the years, but I look at that picture and ask myself how she could be so perceptive, and she's been dead for weeks and I never recognized anything was wrong."

"It wasn't just you, Syd. None of us noticed. Not me, or Will, or her parents, her other friends — "

"You all haven't been best friends with her since junior high. If anyone should have noticed, it was me. And I failed her, Vaughn. Even if I couldn't have saved her, at least I should have known."

"Syd, you can't beat yourself up over this."

She looks at him, and he's shocked by the depth of the pain in her eyes. "I have to, Vaughn. I have to do something. Do you have any idea how unfair this is? I was the one who made that decision all those years ago, and everyone else has suffered. Will's life was ruined, Danny and Francie were killed, and I'm still here, just fine."

"You thought you were doing the right thing, Syd. You thought you were defending your country. I don't see how any of them would have faulted you for that."

"That doesn't bring them back. If I had said 'no,' Vaughn, they'd still be here. I was stupid, and I made a stupid decision, and they've had to pay for it. That's the bottom line."

"Is that what you think?" Too loud, too strong to get through to her now. He continues, softer. "Sydney, let me ask you something. Dixon, do you think he's stupid? Or Marshall? Your other co-workers at SD-6?"

"No," she whispers.

"None of them said 'no,' either. They were misled by people like Alain Christophe, Arvin Sloane, my father. Those are the people you should be blaming. You made a decision back then. I would have made the same decision, Syd. And yes, you can look back now and say if you had said 'no,' things would be very different. But that doesn't make it your fault."

She nods, but he's not sure he's gotten through to her. _You just have to keep saying it until she believes it, no matter how long it takes._

He reaches out — fearless now — and pulls her back into an embrace.

They stay there on the floor, silent, until he can hear knocking at the front door.

"They'll need her keys," she says.

"I'll take care of it. Where are they?"

"Kitchen counter."

He releases her, rises and tiptoes around the photographs to get to the door.

There's a set of keys on one of the remaining clean spaces on the counter, a large ring he assumes is mostly filled with keys for the restaurant. One topped with thick black plastic and the Volkswagon logo; a remote keyless box next to it on the ring. He picks the chain up by its only adornment — a large silver flower — and heads to the door.

The agents at the door are the same two men who drove him and Weiss back from the airport, looking a little better put-together in the early afternoon.

"We need to get some keys from Agent Bristow, so we can start with the car," one says.

"Here." He hands over the keys, points to Francie's black Passat in the driveway. "I think I left you enough room there, but let me know if you need me to move anything."

"We should be fine. Thanks."

Vaughn stares at the car as they approach it, imagines it as the crumpled pile of charred remains it will be in less than an hour, at the bottom of a ravine or wrapped around a utility pole.

He forces the image from his mind and steps back inside, closing and locking the door.

Sydney has moved into the kitchen, sitting with her hands flat on the table, watching him approach. He walks past her, lays a hand on her shoulder and squeezes, continues on. The mess has grown worse since the last time he was here, the smell of cigarette smoke stronger.

"Where's Will?" he asks.

"He went home. We thought it would make more sense for him to be there when all of this happened. We weren't sure which one of us they'd call first."

He puts the tea kettle on and starts on the dishes strewn across the counter, placing the worst of them in the dishwasher.

The vase on the breakfast counter is full of wilted brown daisies. He pulls the flowers out, dead leaves crackling, falling onto the countertop and the floor. He'll need to wipe the countertops, try to find a mop for the floor. He does not want to ask her where it is.

The kettle whistles and he dries one of the clean mugs, tosses in a tea bag and pours. Places it in front of her hands on the table.

She turns her head to look at him. "Thank you." Glances at her watch — the call from Francie's parents will come soon, too soon.

He has already turned around when she speaks again.

"I don't think I can do this, Vaughn."

———

The call comes shortly after two on her landline, a loud, jarring ring.

He moves from his seat across from her, ready to go answer it. But she waves her hand and stands. "I should get it."

She moves to the nearest phone, the cordless on a now-clean kitchen counter. Takes a deep, shaky breath, picks up the phone and thumbs one of the buttons.

She manages to hold it together through hello, returning to her seat at the kitchen table as she listens.

"Oh my god," she says, sounding shocked enough, crying already. "I can't believe — I just saw her this morning."

He slides a hand across the table, takes her free one and squeezes it tight. This leaves her with nothing to wipe away the tears streaming down her face, but she doesn't seem to care.

"Of course. Call and let me know what time your flight is. I'll try to start making whatever arrangements I can today." A pause. "Henderson-Shaw did Danny's — I can call them." Another pause. "No, that's okay. I'll call him. Goodbye."

She turns the phone off, lays it down on the table with a soft plastic thud.

"They're going to fly in tomorrow, to start to plan her funeral. I told them I'd call Will, so he doesn't have to go through that." She pulls a paper napkin from the holder in the center of the table and starts dabbing at her face. "I'm going to try to get the funeral home taken care of, too. There are so many people we're going to have to tell — "

She looks like she's going to break down again, so he stands, hand still linked with hers, pulling her up. She steps into his arms, clinging to him.

Why does she have to go through this? Hasn't she already been through enough?

He finds himself wishing, as he has sometimes in the past, that she had said no to that recruiter all those years ago. Even if it meant she never met him, at least she'd be somewhere, married, all her friends with her. Happy.

She pulls away, dabbing at her eyes with the crumpled napkin. "I'm going to go get cleaned up a little bit."

She walks out of the kitchen, and he hears the bathroom door click closed in the hall. Water running, a key turning in the front door. He turns to see Will Tippin walk in.

"Hey," Will says, low and quiet. "Is it done?"

"Yeah. She told them she'd call you." He considers asking Will how he's doing, but realizes he's tired of people asking him the same question.

Will walks into the kitchen, yanks out one of the seats to the table. Sits and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, then glances around, looking for the coffee cup full of butts Vaughn removed earlier. He lights up, regardless.

Vaughn wordlessly takes the cup out of the dishwasher and places it back on the kitchen table.

"Thanks." Will flicks the ashes that have already formed into the mug, as if in appreciation. He holds out the pack to Vaughn, who shakes his head. "You know, I quit six months after I graduated college." He takes another long drag, taps a few more ashes into the cup. "But right about now, I can't say I really give a shit about lung cancer."

Vaughn sits across from him. "How are you holding up?" And there he is, asking it anyway.

"Aside from the fact that I was falling in love with a woman I thought was one of my best friends and was, in fact, not — all while said friend was actually dead — things are pretty peachy." Will tosses the still-smoking cigarette butt into the mug, looks at Vaughn. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay," he says. "I shouldn't have asked. I'm getting pretty damn tired of that question, myself."

"Yeah," Will says. "But people ask because they care. I always try to remind myself of that."

———

"We're still making arrangements, but the funeral will be at Henderson-Shaw, Thursday at nine," Sydney tells the cordless phone, for somewhere around the fiftieth time.

She is seated on the couch next to him, making calls to Francie's friends, classmates, professors, employees, the numbers she didn't already know gleaned from Francie's Palm Pilot. She'd called the funeral home earlier, worked out as many details as she could without Francie's parents there, then switched over to calling acquaintances.

Friends now, in the evening. These are hardest on her, and she leans against him as she speaks, his arm draped across her back, a move he'd second-guessed an hour ago. Now it seems right.

"I know. It's such a shock," Sydney says. "Okay, I will. Goodbye."

She sets the phone down on the coffee table, sighs and lets her head fall back against his shoulder. "I should probably stop now. It's getting late."

You should stop because you're killing yourself, trying to do all of this planning, all of these calls.

He glances at his watch; she's right, it is getting late, and he should go —

Will walks through the living room, his steps loud, even on the carpet. "Hey, guys, I'm going for a walk."

He's out the door before either of them can respond.

"That's all he does," Sydney says. "Chain smokes and walks."

"We all grieve differently."

"Yeah. I just worry about him — it's hard for me to talk to him about it. His sister was out of town, but she's flying back tomorrow. Even if he can't tell her everything, at least that will be someone he can talk to without her breaking down."

"That's good."

"Vaughn, I don't even know how to begin to thank you for being here today."

"You don't have to, Syd."

The way she's looking at him, maybe he should kiss her. Not on the mouth — cheek or forehead, only, something to try to communicate what he's afraid to say, afraid to bring up. Maybe it would be that simple, maybe she would find his lips and kiss him back —

No, bad idea. She might pull away, might sit there, uncomfortable, uncertain._ She's not ready for that, and neither are you._

"I should get going," he says, standing. "It's late."

She looks up at him. "You can stay here, if you want."

I want to share your bed again, Sydney, but we haven't had that talk, yet. "Syd, I don't think that would be — "

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean — Will's sleeping in Francie's room, but I could get some sheets, for the couch." She pauses. "Forget I asked. You probably want to go back to your own apartment and a real bed."

Back to his empty apartment with his own tragedy, the pictures of his father and the family he destroyed still scattered about the place.

"No. I'll stay."

"Okay," she says, softly. She stands without touching him. "Let me go find those sheets."

It may be a long time before they're ready to have that talk, he thinks.


	15. 2x3: Mirror

Chapter 2.3 — Mirror

Tuesday, March 3, 2003

He wakes to the tinny digital beep of the portable alarm clock she'd given him to place on the coffee table. Reaches over and slaps it off quickly, although it's unlikely either Sydney or Will can hear it. The living room is bright — sun already streaming in through the windows. His body feels heavy, sleep-saturated, the stiff ache of the last few days finally gone.

He stands, makes no attempt to straighten wrinkled dress pants. Folds sheets and blanket and places them in a neat pile on the edge of the couch. Pads across the room in bare feet, down the hallway, pausing outside Sydney's door, then knocking, softly.

"Come in," muffled through the door.

He eases it open. She is still in bed, lying on her back on the far left side, the covers kicked down by her feet.

"Hi." She attempts a smile.

"Hey, Syd. I need to run out for a little while. I can come back later, if you want."

"Where are you going? Francie's parents are going to be here in a few hours. I was hoping — I was hoping you would stay."

He steps forward, sits at the edge of the bed, on what used to be his side, the comforter here mostly undisturbed. "There's something I need to take care of. I shouldn't be too long, but I'm not sure that I'll be able to make it back before they get here. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine. I mean, I don't have any right to ask you to be here."

You have every right, always. "I would, Syd, but I need to do this. I'll get back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Is it more stuff at work? Is everything okay, Vaughn?"

"No." He pauses, hadn't wanted to tell her this. "They're burying my father this morning."

"Vaughn, why didn't you tell me?" She sits up, hair swinging down around her shoulders. "I'll go with you."

"Don't waste your time on him, Syd. You've got enough to deal with as it is. I'm not even sure why I'm going myself. It just feels like something I should do, you know?"

She nods.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay."

"Be careful, Syd. When they did his autopsy yesterday, they found two bullets. One was from your mother, but the second is an unidentified shooter. We don't know who he is, or who else out there might want to — "

"I'll be fine, Vaughn. Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

He rises, begins to back toward the door. "I'm sure."

———

The ceremony is small, just Vaughn, a minister and a hired pallbearer to lower the casket. The grave on a small treeless hill at the back of Los Angeles County, the marker just large enough to hold "John Doe, d. 2003."

Nothing like the one at Arlington, which he remembers as a confusing blur of pomp and guns, stunningly uniform white headstones stretching across field after field. His first — but far from his last — of those. He stands back from the grave, far from the minister, listens to ashes to ashes and dust to dust and wonders who was really buried in that Arlington grave, another thing he'll never know.

They are only here because the CIA has paid for this minimal burial, wanting the body here in case there were questions long after the autopsy. _Available for possible future exhumation_, the official terminology. Otherwise his father would have been cremated, placed in a mass grave with all of the other John Does here, unless he paid for more. He was relieved he did not have to make that decision, did not have to consider writing a check to bury this man as more than a common criminal, unknown, unwanted.

He thinks of Sydney's hours on the phone with the funeral home, the careful preparations for Francie. _You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't mourn this man. He's nothing compared to Francie. To Emily, even. Genuinely good people — dead — and you're here for this. For him._

The minister finishes, claps his Bible shut and gives Vaughn a slight, sympathetic nod. He believes a lie, from the Agency, that Vaughn is a detective with the LAPD who'd worked this John Doe's case and been particularly sympathetic to his subject. It has been enough to make his presence here unsuspicious.

The pallbearer begins to turn the crank. The casket is cheap wood; it goes down with a loud clink every few seconds, echoing off of the trees at the back of the lot. The minister waits until the sound ceases, then walks to the edge, leans over and takes a small handful of dirt, flings it gently into the hole. He stands upright and crosses himself before turning and walking away. The pallbearer follows.

He waits until he can no longer hear their feet falling on the asphalt walk that leads out of this area, wants them long gone before he approaches the grave. He walks in small, careful steps, the grass soft, spongy under his best shoes. It is windy here, blowing through his hair, whipping at his suit jacket.

Windy and cold and alone. It's what he deserves. Not the burial with honors and the crowded funeral parlor with all those people turned out in their best black clothes. All those people for a man they thought was good.

His face is numb in the cold wind, and he is crying, his vision blurry, the cemetery a set of watery greens and browns and grays.

You shouldn't cry. Not for him.

But it hurts, damn it. Fuck him, it hurts.

He kneels in the short grass next to the grave, picks up a fistful of dirt and flings it down on the cheap pine.

Fuck you, John Doe. Fuck you, Dad.

He wants to say it out loud, can't, his mouth open and it's caught in his throat and he is sobbing, instead. Reaching up with dirty hands to wipe at his cheeks.

And then a hand on his shoulder, soft. He turns.

Sydney, standing there above him.

She drops down beside him, wraps her arms around him, sliding one hand up to his neck and pulling his head to her chest. "It's okay," she whispers. "It's okay."

He sobs audibly into her, has never broken down like this with her, but he doesn't care, doesn't want to care, not for now.

He loses himself, like he's somewhere else, another world — a smaller world, bounded by her arms, her chin on the top of his head, the darkness of his eyelids, closed tight. And he does not have to come back, not yet, and she is here, and it is okay to break down. It is necessary, overdue, and somehow, even now, he knows this.

It takes a long time for him to return, to make an attempt to slow his breathing and pull away from her shoulder. She keeps one hand firm on his back, brings the other around, wiping the tears and dirt from his face.

"I told you not to come." He whispers; he does not trust his voice.

"I'm not here for him."

That very nearly puts him over the edge again, but he swallows hard, collects himself. "Whoever that man was, he took my father from me."

"I know." She takes his hand, rises first and pulls him with her. He notices Weiss standing behind them, further down the hill, arms crossed, watching.

Weiss says nothing as they approach, Sydney's hand still tight around his, merely reaches out, touches Vaughn's shoulder.

"Thank you. Both of you."

They do not respond. They do not need to.

"You going to drive him?" Weiss asks Sydney.

"Yes."

They start toward the cemetery entrance together. He does not look back, and maybe he should. He doesn't plan to return.

———

She stops at his apartment first, gives him a chance to change out of his black suit, the pants dusty, dirty at the knees. Go into the bathroom and wash his face with cold water, pat it dry with a towel and look into the mirror to survey the damage.

His eyes are still puffy. He cannot remember the last time he's cried like that. Maybe not since he was a child. Not since the first funeral.

He can't focus on that, not now. He needs to get moving, pull together an overnight bag; he'd left Sydney standing awkward and alone in the foyer, told her to give him a minute, and ran up the stairs.

He still has a bag half-packed, tossed into a vacant spot in the closet, from one of the last times he'd stayed at her apartment, when they were together. He supplements it with a few fresh t-shirts, boxers. Zips it up and pounds down the stairs. Marginally more comfortable now in khakis and a good sweater; he'd wanted to dress nicely for Francie's parents. They have just lost their daughter and will surely not care, but it still feels necessary.

Sydney is sitting on the edge of the couch in his living room, and he wonders if she looked at the pictures on his end tables — copies of the ones at his mother's house, the Vaughn family in one, Michael and Dad playing catch in another — that he will put away when he has time. Maybe throw away, if he can.

How can she stand to be here, with you? How many times did you make him out to be the martyr her mother killed?

She stands as soon as she sees him. Crosses her arms and walks toward him in the hallway, slow and uncertain. Her pants marked with the same dusty streaks as his; she'll have to change when they get to her apartment, he thinks. Change and turn around and wear black again for Francie's funeral. Too much black this week, too much black this life.

She stops a few feet away from him. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know. Better, I guess. You?"

"I'm okay," she says. Soft voice, slight nod. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

Are you ready, Sydney?

———

She drives silently to her apartment. Puts his car in park behind Will's and hands him the keys.

"Will was going to pick them up from the airport," she says, unbuckling, opening her door. "They must be here already."

He follows her to the front door, a few steps behind. Watches as she stands, frozen, staring at the door. She bows her head for a moment and then reaches out, turns the knob, swings the door open.

They are in the living room. Will seated on the chair, facing the middle-aged black couple on the couch. They sit close together — Francie's father, graying, weary, his arm around his wife. Francie's mother leans into him, a crumpled tissue in her lap, her hair short but unkempt, a style that requires curling that hasn't been done today. Both dressed casually, jeans and sweaters. Their suitcases line the hallway to the bedrooms.

"Sydney." Francie's mother, tears thick in her voice. She rises from the couch, crosses the living room to envelop Sydney in a tight hug, still clutching the tissue behind her back. She has a round face that must be pleasant in happier times.

Vaughn closes the door, stands and watches them cry freely a few feet in front of him. He feels as though he is hovering here, and does not belong.

Sydney pulls away first, drops her arms to her sides and glances back at him. "Gloria, this is my — friend, Michael Vaughn," she says. "Vaughn, Gloria and Thomas Calfo."

Friend? But what did you expect? What are you to her, anymore?

He reaches out, grasps Gloria's hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." Gloria nods, lets Sydney take her arm and lead her back to the living room. Both sit on the couch beside her husband.

There is nowhere for him to sit, unless he makes it uncomfortably crowded on the couch. He walks to the kitchen instead, grabs a chair there, returns and places it next to Will's seat.

"You just don't think something like this will ever happen — a car accident," Francie's mother says. "I mean, you hear about it on the news, you see it in the paper, but you always think, 'oh, that will never happen to me. It will never happen to someone I care about.' I almost didn't believe it, when the police called. How could I believe it? We'd just talked to her on the phone Friday — "

This is not what Sydney needs to listen to right now, he knows, and he watches her, sitting there on the couch, hand over her mouth, struggling for control.

" — but they told me all of the details. The man on the phone said he was so sorry, but they were sure it was her — " Gloria breaking down now, pressing at her eyes with the tissue, nearly wailing " — and it's just so wrong. So wrong that this could happen! A mother shouldn't have to bury her baby girl."

Oh god, Syd. She looks at him, the horror in her eyes startling, painful. Stands with a quick, blurted excuse me, and rushes down the hall, past the suitcases, into the bathroom.

He stands and follows, tentatively.Does she want him to go after her? Is there anything he could possibly do to help?

The bathroom door is closed but not locked. He pushes it open and it creaks, jarring, until he can see her, standing in front of the sink, her hands resting on the countertop, her head bowed. She cries, gasping, sucking in air; her face reflected red and glistening in the mirror.

He creaks the door closed behind him.

"I can't do this," she shakes out between sobs, looking up briefly to eye him in the mirror. "I can't go back out there and look at them and pretend, when I know what really happened. When I know that their daughter is dead because of me."

"She's not dead because of you," he whispers. Now is not the time to be loud or firm. He crosses the bathroom, lays his hand on her shoulder, the same gentle grip she offered him earlier, pulling her into a hug.

"I just want this to be over," she says. "But it's never going to be over. Even when we're through the funeral and they go home and I don't have to look at them and lie anymore, she's still going to be gone."

"I know." She is shaking against him, chest heaving, and he wishes he could do more than just pull her closer and offer meaningless words.

"I want her back, Vaughn. I want to spend more time with her, and sit down and talk to her, and be a better friend than I've been. She deserved that. She deserved a lot more than that. Instead what she got was a so-called best friend who's been lying to her for years."

"Sydney, you can try to paint yourself that way, but it's obvious you loved her very much. And I would think she felt the same way about you."

She says nothing. Pulls her arms away, eventually, and steps back toward the sink. She turns on the cold water faucet, splashes some on her face.

He reaches over to the towel rack and grabs a washcloth, hands it to her.

"You don't have to go back out there, Syd. Everyone would understand if you wanted to take some time for yourself."

"No." She rubs the washcloth across her face, still red. "I feel like I owe it to them to be there for this."

"You don't owe them anything, Syd."

"Then I owe it to her, to be there for them. It's the last thing I can do for her."

"Okay. But take your time. Why don't you go and change? I'll tell them you'll be out when you're ready."

She nods.

"Syd, the other thing you can do for her is go easy on yourself. Francie wouldn't have wanted you to torture yourself over this."

"I know."

———

He sleeps — or attempts to — on her couch again that night. Sydney in her own bedroom, Gloria and Thomas in their daughter's room. Will had volunteered to go home, which was fortunate. Although Sydney had calmed down, walked out of her bedroom with a determined look on her face and helped plan the funeral until late in the evening, he had still wanted to be here, in case she needed him.

It is not as easy to sleep here, tonight. Last night, he'd been so exhausted she could have offered him a bench in the middle of LAX and he would have dropped off. Now, this spot feels vulnerable — too out in the open, too many people here who could walk through. Not very comfortable, either, although Sydney has done what she can with extra blankets, pillows.

Too much to think about, as well. He lays facing the ceiling, his father's betrayal heavy on his mind, back on that windy hilltop, the dirt in his hand. His mother, what will he tell his mother?

And Sydney. Always Sydney, but especially tonight. Asleep not so far away from him, alone and devastated by her grief. Where would he have slept if Will wanted the couch? Would he dare try to share her bed?

Will they ever move beyond mutual grief, beyond support? Is there anything left of them?Is she still angry, underneath the pain?

He is not sure. But at least he is here, and that's a good step, a big step.

Footsteps in the hallway. Stirring in the kitchen, and then faint light.

He tenses. Should he pretend to be asleep? No, best to get up and reveal he's awake. He rises, finds it's Sydney tiptoeing through the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water.

He crosses the living room, the floor cool under his bare feet. Into the kitchen. "Hey."

She has turned on the light over the sink — enough to see, but it leaves deep shadows in the corners.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" She leans back against the counter, tall, thin glass in her hand.

"No. I've been up." He glances at his watch. 1:30, even later than he'd thought.

"I had a dream," she says. "A good dream, I guess. It was just me and Will and Francie. We were out at some bar somewhere, maybe a couple years ago, just out having fun. And it was just so nice. I wasn't thinking about death or SD-6 or school, I was just out with my friends. And then I woke up and realized it wasn't real, that it wasn't ever going to be like that again."

She looks tired, even here in the shadows, like her grief and the burden of planning have finally caught up to her, worn her down.

"I had dreams a lot like that when I was a kid, when my father — when we thought my father died. I would dream that he was still alive and nothing had changed, or that he came back, somehow. I had them less and less as I got older, but still every once and awhile one would hit me. It was always hard to wake up to reality." He laughs, harsh and bitter. "I guess my dreams were right. He was still alive — just not the way I would have wanted him to be."

"Vaughn, how are you feeling? After — after this morning?"

"I'm okay," he says. "Better, I guess. It's weird. Sometimes I forget that it all happened, just for a little while. And then it all comes rushing back — talking to him, watching him die, knowing that the father I believed in for 26 years wasn't really my father. It's like there's this big black spot there, now."

She sips her water. "It was the same way with my mother."

"See, I was thinking about that today, when you were in my apartment. How many times did I make him out to be this martyr that your mother killed, when he wasn't that at all?"

"Vaughn, you never made him out to be a martyr in front of me. Not at all. You hardly talked about him, unless it came up because of my mother. And I could tell every time it did that it hurt you deeply, the same as it does now. But I never once thought you presented him as that. And even if that's what you thought, given what you knew the facts to be then, I would understand."

Would you? Did you? Or are you just being kind, now, because I'm hurt and you're hurt and it's just easier to avoid it?

He voices none of this. Says thank you, instead, and is rewarded with a small smile. "I'm going to go in to work in the morning, just for a little while. I want to check on the status of that shooter, and I have a meeting with Barnett. Are you going to be okay with Francie's parents?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Call me if you need anything. Otherwise I should be back in the afternoon."

"Okay. Good night." She sets her glass in the sink, starts toward the hallway.

He walks back to the couch, thinks about what she said, about his meeting with Barnett and the question he's barely considered.

He realizes he has an answer.


	16. 2x4: Ambiguous

Chapter 2.4 — Ambiguous

Wednesday, March 4, 2003

Weiss is one of only a few scattered analysts and agents there when he walks into the ops center. It is early; he'd woke before dawn on the couch — three hours sleep, four maybe — and decided it might be best to slip out before everyone else was up. Better to let Sydney and the Calfos eat breakfast and plan the funeral of a woman he probably never knew without his presence.

He wonders about the hours Weiss has been keeping here. They must be short-staffed, with Dixon and Sydney gone, Jack missing, and the deaths.

Weiss is examining satellite footage, zooming in and out on black-and-white pictures of some unidentified city, warehouses and old factories.

"Hey." Vaughn announces his presence, pockets his access card.

Weiss clicks and drags the picture. Dead industry gives way to row houses, sliding across the monitor until the school from Chicago is centered in the middle. He leans back in his chair, turns his head. His face is blanched, tired. "Hey yourself. Why the hell are you here?"

"I have another meeting with Barnett. And I wanted to see if there was anything new on the mystery shooter."

"Nothing on that front. But get this — Jack Bristow walked in at five in the morning. Complete and total chaos. They took him into custody."

"Where is he now?"

"They're interrogating him."

"I'd like to see that."

"Yeah, you and me both. There's no way they'd let you participate, though. Aside from the whole you're not supposed to be here thing, and the whole Sydney thing, we were pretty involved in what went down in that school." He picks up his phone. "I can see if we can get you a video feed, though."

Weiss pounds through a four-digit extension.

"Hey, Jake. I wanted to see if I could get video feed from Jack Bristow's interrogation on one of the computers up here." Weiss starts scrambling through the pile of file folders on his desk, then looks to Vaughn, his fingers together in a pen grip, scribbling air. "Yeah, yeah, just a sec."

Vaughn fumbles through his suit jacket, pulls a pen from the inside pocket and hands it over, watches Weiss yank the cap off. "Okay, go." He tears off the corner of a memo and scribbles: 172.23.144.287. "Thanks, Jake."

Weiss hangs up the phone, hands over the piece of paper. "Here's your IP address. You can use Sydney's computer again. I might join you for awhile, even though I've got way too much to do here."

Vaughn walks over to Sydney's desk, sits. Weiss rolls, pushing off of his own desk and kicking along the floor until he arrives.

"They have you doing clean-up on the school?" Vaughn asks.

"Among other things. And when I say other things, I mean like 50 other things."

Sydney's computer is on but locked. Vaughn logs in, waits through the security scripts, then opens a browser, types the IP address. The video loads quickly, a small window in the middle of the screen, but there is no audio, yet.

They've opted to use the actual interrogation room, a narrow little windowless thing with not much beyond a long stainless steel table and two-way mirror. Jack Bristow sits on one side of the table, wearing a suit, his hands under the table, likely cuffed. One of the Langley suits from Vaughn's debrief sits across from Jack, and two guards stand on either side of the door. Devlin isn't visible — he must be behind the mirror. He would not miss this.

"I haven't heard much," Weiss says. "But I know the basic story is that Jack says he's been on the CIA's side all along, but with the widespread corruption he saw, he wasn't sure who he could trust, blah blah blah. So he's been working on his own to bring an end to the quest."

"That's exactly what Derevko said he would say. She wouldn't tell me if it was true."

"Maybe she didn't know if it was true."

The audio kicks in, too loud. He taps the volume button several times, glad there's no one around to glance over in annoyance.

They have dropped in on the middle of one of Jack's answers:

" — of course William and I had doubts. But Arvin's pitch was impressive, and then he showed us those documents. We discussed it afterwards. I wanted to turn Sloane in — he'd withheld material, lied to the Agency. Clearly he was a risk. But when I talked to William, I became certain that he was sold on this idea of trying to track down Rambaldi's work on eternal life. I've seen a number of people drawn by the lure of Rambaldi, but never two quite like Arvin and William. And Irina, once we brought her in."

"So you made the decision to join in this pact without notifying the CIA?"

"Yes. I thought I would be able to better stop them by being on the inside. But I was afraid to go to the Agency. If either of them had thought I turned them in, they might attempt to hurt me — or my family. I had a young daughter at the time. You can understand my concern."

Did he really believe that? Would your father harm a little girl? A little Sydney? He thinks of her young, little brown pigtails and freckles, feels the anger overtake him, his body tense, jaw tight.

"We don't know if that's true," Weiss says, staring at him. "Jack could be totally twisting around his involvement to try to save his ass. We don't know what happened, and we probably never will."

"He was willing to kill her at 28. Why wouldn't he kill her as a child, if it furthered the quest?"

———

The interrogation is still going when Vaughn closes the browser window, locks the computer and stands. Fifteen minutes until his appointment with Barnett. He will try to be early, this time.

He has listened for hours as Jack meticulously detailed the group's search for Rambaldi manuscripts, artifacts. The eventual discovery of his wife's secret, and the decision to bring her into the group. Years of their betrayal to the CIA. Rogue missions, theft and murder. And every person they had brought in to the search.

Finally, the Langley suit had stopped, shuffled his papers on the table, asked the one question Vaughn was waiting for: "And in all of this time, you never once found an opportunity to notify the Agency of what was going on?"

"I've told you who was involved," Jack responded. "You tell me if it would have been wise to notify the Agency, with the level of corruption I saw."

The door to Barnett's office is open, the appointment before his apparently long-gone. She is hunched over a file folder, writing, when he walks in and takes a seat on the couch.

"Good morning," he says, aiming for steady with his voice, mostly succeeding.

She glances up, puts down her pen and closes the folder. "Agent Vaughn, good morning."

Barnett places the folder on top of a stack near the edge of her desk. She rifles through the stack until she pulls out another folder, then flips it open flat.

"How are you feeling today, Michael?"

He hates that she uses his first name, knows she does it to try to get closer to him, closer to her subject. It still sounds wrong here. "I'm better, I think. Yesterday was kind of rough — they buried my father's body."

"And you went to the burial?"

"Yeah. I'm not even sure why. It just felt like something I should do. He was my father, in spite of everything."

"That's understandable. It provides you with a sense of closure," she says. "Why was it rough?"

Should have never said that, damn it. "It was just such a contrast, from the last time — from when I was a kid. When I watched them put him in the ground, I guess it just brought home what a different man he was from the person I idolized as a child."

She nods, looks down at the folder. "I asked you during our last session which hurt more — that your father had been working for the Alliance and was involved in this Rambaldi plot, or that he had been alive all this time and never contacted your or your mother. Do you have an answer now?"

"I do," he says. "I think — even if he would have contacted us, that wouldn't have been enough to make up for what he was doing. He walked away from this country to work for an enemy of the United States for years. And he knew what he was doing. He never tried to contact the CIA, to become a double agent. And yeah, it hurts that obviously he didn't love us the way I thought he did. But to know that he was a bad person — that he must have done horrible things for that quest, for the Alliance — that's worse. That's much worse."

"So you feel that because he never attempted to make contact with his family, that means he didn't love you?"

He rests his head in his hand. _Does it?_ "I don't know. I mean, sometimes I see him as pure evil — someone who turned his back on his family and his country for his own selfish purposes." _He loved you and your mother very much._ "But then sometimes I think he did love us, and it just wasn't enough. Or he loved us and wanted this eternal life for us, but he got so convoluted by the chase that he couldn't get back."

"There may be no way for you to tell which of those it was, Michael."

"I know that."

"Are you aware that Jack Bristow walked in this morning?"

"Yes."

"Have you thought about trying to talk to him, eventually?"

"I have. But I watched some of his interrogation, before I came in here. He describes my father as the same sort of Rambaldi zealot Arvin Sloane was. I don't know if that's the truth or not. I don't know if it's to Jack's benefit to tell the truth," he says. "I — actually, I had an encounter with Irina Derevko a few days ago."

"Yes. I saw that in your file."

"She said he loved us very much."

"And do you believe her?"

"I want to, I think. She doesn't have any reason to lie about that to me. But it's very hard to reconcile that with everything else."

"Would it be easier to paint him as a completely bad person? To think that he didn't love his family?"

"I don't know. The father I grew up with was — he was completely good. He died when I was so young, that's all I knew, the good things. That was all my mother ever talked about. Obviously, that's not realistic. I guess someone who's completely bad isn't, either."

"But it's easier to accept him as bad, isn't it? It's harder to be angry at someone who may have still loved you, deep down, amidst all the bad."

"Yes," he says. "I guess it is."

———

Weiss is still working through satellite footage of the school when Vaughn stops at his desk.

"Hey, how'd your session go?" Weiss asks. "You look a little worn out."

"Too much thinking through things I'm not sure I want to think through."

"I hear you. You out of here?"

"Yeah. I'm going to head back to Sydney's. I just wanted to stop by and say goodbye. And thank you — for showing up yesterday."

"You don't have to thank me. Although it would have been nice to know about it before I got the call from Sydney."

"I know. I just thought that was something I should do alone. I didn't want anyone else to waste their time on him."

"Next time — well, I don't think there's ever going to be a next time quite like that, but you don't have to go it alone, Mike."

He nods. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah. You take it easy."

I'll try. He crosses the rotunda, towards the garage exit. Notes Devlin leaning over an analyst's desk, staring at something on the computer screen there, but keeps walking.

"Agent Vaughn!"

He turns, surprised to find Devlin a few feet away, approaching quickly. His hair seems brighter, fluffier in the silver-white lighting of the rotunda "Hello, sir."

"Hello. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay — better."

"Good," Devlin smiles slightly, then sobers. "I trust you've heard about Jack Bristow?"

"Yeah. I watched some of the interrogation feed."

"Do you believe him? You were there, in that school." Devlin searches his face, wanting honesty, here, off the record.

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I don't know, either," Devlin says. "But I do know I'd rather have Jack Bristow on our side than against it."

"You're going to release him, aren't you?"

"Unless his statement check fails spectacularly, yes."

———

He stops at his apartment to change and stuff more things into the overnight bag. Adds a suit bag, black suit inside — the good one he's left with the cleaners, so second-best will have to do — plus a tie and white shirt. Socks and good shoes, too, cleaned and buffed in the bathroom.

His cell phone rings as he's wondering if there's anything else he needs to add to the small pile of luggage on his bed.

His mother. _Damn it. How long has it been since you've talked to her? Not since you found out._

He sits on the edge of his bed, waits three more rings, readies himself. Send.

"Hey, Mom." _It's not like she knows._

"Michael, hello." A pause. "I was just wondering why you haven't called. Is it work, again?"

"No — it's Sydney. Her best friend just died in a car accident." Not a complete lie, also not nearly the whole truth.But if he does tell her, it's not something he could do over the phone. _Do you tell her? Would she want to know? _"I've been with her."

Silence, for a moment; this, in itself, is shocking.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Her voice is deep, concerned. "How horrible for her to have to go through that. Is there somewhere I can send flowers?"

"The funeral is tomorrow, at Henderson-Shaw. But you don't need to send flowers, Mom."

"I want to. What was her name, Sydney's friend?"

"Francie Calfo. F - r - a - n - c - i - e, C - a - l - f o."

He imagines her sitting at the secretary in the corner of her kitchen, taking careful notes, surrounded by good stationary and good pens, largely unused since she's discovered email. "Please tell Sydney I'm so sorry for her loss."

"I will," he says. "Listen, Mom. I'm going to be busy tomorrow, with the funeral, but would you maybe like to have dinner Friday?"

"Yes, of course. One of the nurses at the hospital recommended a place in Santa Monica I'd like to try. Why don't I make reservations and email you with the address?"

"That sounds good. Bye, Mom."

"Good bye."

It's set, now. You've got your opportunity. But can you tell her? Should you?

———

The front door is unlocked when he arrives at Sydney's, and he slips in quietly.

Sydney, Will, and the Calfos are sitting in the living room again, in the arrangement they established yesterday, talking about the fate of Francie's restaurant.

"— it was such an accomplishment for her," Gloria says. "It would be so horrible to just let that go to waste."

"Gloria, we need to be practical here," Thomas says. "I know Francie loved the restaurant, but nobody here wants to run a restaurant, or would even know the first thing about how to go about it."

Sydney looks up at him, standing there in the doorway. Her face pained, weary.

"I think Fran would have wanted it to succeed, regardless of who owns it or runs it." Will says. "Maybe we'd be better off selling it to someone who could do that — make it successful. That could be her legacy."

The Calfos, then Will, notice his presence, turning toward the door.

"Hello, Michael," Thomas says.

"Hi. I'm sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to Sydney for a minute?"

Sydney stands quickly; she must be relieved to escape this conversation, even if just for a little while. She walks around the edge of the living room, over to the patio door. Vaughn follows.

He's always liked this area, although this is the first time he's actually been out here. The benches and the potted plants, tree branches rustling overhead in the slight breeze today. Glimpsed through the glass doors, it had always seemed to be a good place to sit with a glass of wine, with her, once the nights got warmer.

Maybe you will, someday.

In the sunlight she looks even worse, standing there in front of him, her arms crossed like she's trying to hold herself together. He reaches out, aims to do something to try to comfort her, ends up catching her elbow, squeezing awkwardly. It feels wrong, and he flushes, embarrassed, pulls his hand away.

"Syd, your father turned himself in to the JTF today."

"He did? Is he okay? Can I see him?"

"He's going to be in interrogation for the rest of today, if not more. But I think they're going to release him. I'm sure he'll come to see you after that."

"I want to know when he's released."

"I'll call Weiss and make sure you're notified," he says. "Syd, when your mother came to see me — she said they felt what they did was the only way they could save you, and not have those people chasing you down for the rest of your life."

"I know. They talked to me for awhile, before they dropped me off at the hospital," she says, softly. "I don't remember everything, but I remember them saying that they loved me, that they were sorry they had to do things this way. They said they'd never do anything to hurt me, and it was all over now."

"Syd, when you were in that chair, before they started shooting, what did you think? Did they tell you in advance what they were planning?"

"No. I don't think they had a chance," she says. "I didn't know what to think. I wanted to believe they didn't mean what they were saying, but it was hard not to."

"No one should ever have to go through that kind of doubt."

"Afterwards I felt so guilty, for even thinking that they might be willing to go through with it. My mother said they didn't give me much choice, but still. When it came down to it, I didn't trust them. And they came through."

"I thought they were willing to do it, too. But they had to be convincing, Syd, or that group never would have let them walk in there with guns — with the ability to stop it."

She shakes her head. "I guess I'm surprised that my dad came back. Some of the things they said to me — I thought I might not see them again, at least not in public. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it didn't work. Maybe they do love each other, but they belong in different worlds."


	17. 2x5: Vantage

Chapter 2.5 — Vantage

Thursday, March 5, 2003

Everyone wakes early, today. They move through the apartment, largely silent, a slow procession through coffee, showers, clothes.

It is sunny, the sky nearly cloudless. That seems wrong, to him, that it should be so beautiful. And yet it is convenient; rain would make the burial harder, complicate things with umbrellas.

They take two cars to the funeral home, Will driving the Calfos, Sydney quiet in his passenger seat. The drive is short; Sydney must have chosen a place that was familiar, probably somewhere she drove past on her way to somewhere more mundane — grocery store, coffee shop, bank, maybe — to bury her fiancé and now her friend.

This is three, now, for her, and you could hardly handle one, now two. Is it really two, if it's for the same man? Her mother, then Danny, now Francie. Even if her mother came back, that funeral held true for most of her life. _ Like your father's._

The parking lot is nearly empty — just employees, maybe another family here now. He parks next to Will's car, near the building, an old house that's been expanded over the years with no attempt to make the expansions look like the original place, a confusing amalgam of structures tacked together.

Sydney grasps the door handle and then looks over at him. Her face tough, her jaw set, death row inmate ready for the executioner.

He opens his mouth to speak, can think of nothing to say. He exhales, instead, watches her open the door and follows her out of the car.

The path to the door is covered with a worn layer of green outdoor carpeting, threadbare in the middle. She waits for him at the door. Her clothes today are simple — black raincoat, black sheath dress and blazer, slight heels on her shoes. A simple silver pendant hangs in the V of her dress, silver hoops in her ears.

They're met at the door by a young black-suited man who introduces himself as Bill and seems too friendly, too helpful for today. He asks them to follow him, please. Through the bastard additions, the offices and the rooms filled with flowers and coffins with price tags done in calligraphy on heavy cream-colored card stock.

Into the main house, the real house, 12-foot ceilings and pastel floral wallpaper bordered with dark wood. Will and the Calfos standing in one of the front rooms, facing a closed metal casket.

Most of the light in the room is natural, flowing in through sheer curtains on the large window beyond the casket. Ten rows of folding chairs face the front, a narrow aisle down the middle, like this is theatre, or church. Flowers here already, at least 20 arrangements. He knows without looking at the card that the stargazer lilies are from his mother.

He stands beside her at the back of the room, watching. Bill offers to take their coats and Sydney shrugs out of hers, hands it to him. Bill scurries off to some unknown coatroom behind them, and Vaughn is glad to see him leave.

He looks over at her, longs to take her hand. Speaks low, so they won't hear him in the front of the room. "You know it's okay to walk away, today, Syd, if it gets to be too much. Take some time for yourself, if you need to."

"I'll be okay."

He thinks of his mother, who'd put him to bed early after the funeral — the fake funeral — and cried through the night in the hotel bathroom. He'd stayed up with her, listened through the wall, crying too, hiding his used tissues under the bed.

"You know I'm here for you — if you're not."

"I know." She reaches for his hand herself, stumbling across his fingers with her own before she finds a good grip. "Thank you."

———

Calling hours begin with a slow trickle of guests — in through the front door, not the back entrance they'd taken — that quickly grows to a large crowd. They span young and old, family and friends.

The young stand in tight clusters, speaking about what a shock it was, how nice Francie was. They were in classes or school clubs with her, worked with her. A few cousins, here and there.

The old do much the same — a few use the chairs — although it's what a nice girl and what a tragedy, how terrible, so young. They are bosses, professors, aunts and uncles.

He stands at the edge of the room, by the arched entranceway, watches them talk and hug and sip at tiny Styrofoam coffee cups. Sydney circulates, mostly among the young, touching hands and shoulders, nodding and telling them thank you.

He's always hated funerals — they bring him back to his father's, at eight. Even this one, even now. The room is not so different, and they were both crowded, both caskets closed.

Now you know why. The real reason.

He should get some air, he decides, go outside and clear his head. Sydney is fine, here, reminiscing with her friends. Sad, but under control.

He goes out the front door, past the stream of mourners entering. The porch here is long and wide; there is plenty of room for him to sit on the step and still let people through. He breathes deep. It is warmer, now — she won't need her coat for the burial.

Will Tippin stands with a circle of smokers on the sidewalk, nodding his thanks much like Sydney. Vaughn is too far away to hear any of the conversation.

He watches them blow long columns of smoke and pass around a lighter. Watches the steady parade of cars pulling into the lot. And sees Jack Bristow turn the corner of the building, stepping quickly up the sidewalk. Vaughn stands.

When the hell did they release him? And how did he know to come here?

Jack walks past him and onto the porch with the barest of nods. Vaughn follows him inside —Sydney wanted to see her father, but this day is already emotional enough for her without Jack's surprise appearance.

She is speaking to a group of friends, and Jack stands off to the side, waiting until they disperse before he approaches her. He taps her on the shoulder and she turns around. Says "Dad!" loud enough Vaughn can hear it from the edge of the room, and throws her arms around her father, embracing him tightly.

"I don't know how the hell he beat me here." From somewhere behind him. He turns.

Weiss.

"Hey, Eric."

"Hey. They released Jack, obviously. I tried to call you."

"I turned off the ringer on my cell phone. I figured if it was important enough, they'd use emergency bypass."

"Yeah, I considered that, but I didn't want your phone to go off if you were in the middle of this. He asked about the funeral — I figured it was okay to tell him. I wanted to head over here for a little while, anyway." Weiss motions to Sydney and Jack, sitting and talking now. "How's she doing?"

"Pretty good, so far."

"Good. I read the transcript, of Jack's interrogation. I wanted to know, before I came over here — he says he didn't know they'd doubled Francie until it was too late. They didn't tell Jack and Irina until they realized it would be the best way to lure Sydney out there. Of course, we don't know if that's the truth."

Vaughn watches them — Sydney nodding fiercely, tears in her eyes — and wonders if Jack has just told her the same thing.

"I think it is. I don't know that I believe everything he says, or even most of what he says. But I don't think Jack would have willingly participated in something that would hurt her like this. I want to believe that, for her sake."

———

He puts a purple flag on top of his car and drives fourth in line, behind the police car, hearse and limo. Only the Calfos in the limo; Sydney in his passenger seat, Will and his sister in the back. Her hair is a deeper red than the shade he remembers Sydney copying, still disturbingly bright, out of place among all the black today.

They crawl along, a big long train of a procession snaking out behind him, down the street and around the corner. They take surface streets to get to the cemetery, but it is still a long, silent drive. He is thankful to at least have the road, the cars in front of him, to focus on. Sydney just stares out the passenger window, chin in her hand.

He parks on the street, can see the grave from here. The ground is covered with a green tarp, rows of white folding chairs on top of that.

Sydney waits for him to close his door, walk around the car. He extends his elbow, just a bit, offering his arm unofficially, surprised when she takes it.

She walks on tiptoes to keep her heels from sinking in the thick grass, until they reach the tarp. They sit in the front row, beside Will and his sister. Francie's parents in the middle, talking to the minister. The rest of the people slide into their seats; a few stand, in the back, when they run out of chairs.

He glances back at the hearse. The pallbearers moving, now, a cousin, an uncle, four friends. They walk in short, cautious steps, flanked by a man from the cemetery who is far too loud in directing them where to place it on the gravesite.

The minister steps backward, closer to the grave, and stands with his hands clasped over his Bible, waiting for the crowd to settle. He is middle-aged, balding, kind-faced. Here from the church near the UCLA campus Sydney and Francie tried to attend occasionally. Not often enough, Sydney said. The minister had called her yesterday, to make sure he would pronounce Francie's name correctly and ask for pertinent details of her life, her death.

The pallbearers back away. The minister begins.

"It tests our faith, when we see someone so young taken so tragically from this life. Francie had just completed her MBA, had just started her own restaurant. Her life was supposed to be ahead of her. When we see a life — a young life — ended long before we feel it should have, we often find ourselves questioning the Lord's plan. I do not have an answer for you, here today, except to say that the Lord does have a plan, and while we may not understand why He took Francie from us so young, we can take comfort in knowing that she is in a better place, now."

He looks at all of them, in the front row.

"I know it is difficult for you, her friends and family, to have to say goodbye, to not have the time you feel you deserved with her. Stay strong, all of you, and remember that you will see her again if you keep your faith. This is the Lord's promise."

The sound of sniffling all around him, of hands rustling into pockets for tissues, Gloria sobbing loudly a few chairs away. He looks over at Sydney, her chin trembling, tears streaming down her face. He reaches over, clasps her hand in her lap, and she bows her head, chin nearly touching her chest, struggling harder for control.

The minister still speaking, his voice melodic, swinging, perfect preacher style.

"— together in that glorious kingdom." He opens his Bible, surely unnecessary, surely he's had this memorized for years. But maybe it's for comfort. Maybe they all need to believe that the proof's in there, that they'll see her again.

Psalm 23. Even he's got this one memorized. The casket winding down, clink-a-clink-a-clink, nearly the same sound as his father's two days ago.

Sydney fumbles in her coat pocket for a tissue with her free hand, wipes at her eyes. Still clutching tight at his hand with the other.

Hang in there, Syd. It's almost over. This part, at least.

The clinking stops. A final prayer, from the minister. Something about bless and keep and forever, amen.

The crowd standing, slowly, people hugging those next to them, in rows in front and behind them, embracing, balanced over the chairs. He rises with Sydney, pulls her into a hug, tighter and longer than most in the crowd.

"I want to take some time," she says. "You can wait in the car, if that's okay?"

"Of course."

He starts across the grass, looks back at her halfway to the car, standing in the line approaching the Calfos, everyone hugging Gloria and then Thomas in turn.

He watches from the car window as the crowd disperses, and Sydney finally takes her turn. Will and Amy Tippin open the back doors on either side of his car and sit, wordlessly, closing their doors with loud claps in quick succession.

Sydney walks away from the gravesite, but in the wrong direction. Tiptoes across part of the cemetery and stops, kneels, in front of another grave. _ Danny_.

He hasn't cried today. Not for Francie, not for someone he barely knew, if at all. But he watches Sydney lay her hand on the tombstone, bow her head.

And he cries now, for her.

———

They return to the funeral home, briefly, to pull cards from all of the flowers, put a few of the plants into the trunk of his car. Bill volunteers to donate the rest to a local hospital, says he is terribly sorry for their loss and thanks them — too earnestly, it seems — for allowing Henderson-Shaw to serve them. Vaughn wonders if the hospital is Cedars Sinai, if his mother will see her flowers again. Surely she'll understand.

Then back into their cars, just Sydney now, in his, and onward.

One of the waiters at the restaurant had volunteered his house for an informal reception. Cold cuts and soft drinks, reminiscing and catching up. He drifts in and out of conversations, on the fringes of this group he never really knew, feels this isn't really the time to try to get to know them.

They leave when the crowd dwindles, just a cluster of people talking around the couch, follow Will back to Sydney's apartment and wait as the Calfos pack. Sydney promises to go through Francie's things and box up the important stuff, send it on later.

And now standing with them at the door, saying goodbye for the last time, there beside Sydney as they follow Will to his car. It is late, growing dark. Long day, he thinks, long and too much.

They wait until the car is gone, down the street, and then step back inside. Should he leave, too? Does she want to be alone?

No, he decides. He should stay for awhile and make sure she's okay. He'll leave at the first sign she doesn't want him here.

Sydney strides past him, into the kitchen. He follows, at a distance, stops in the doorway. Watches her pull a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter, search for a corkscrew, start to work on opening it.

"Would you like some?" She turns to him, and he feels like an afterthought.

"Sure."

She pours two hefty glasses, gives one to him. They walk together to the living room and sit on opposite ends of the couch. He turns to look at her, takes a sip of wine. Not particularly bad, but not particularly good, either. It is not one of the ones they were saving.

"How are you holding up, Syd?"

She takes a long drink before answering. "I'm okay. Glad it's all over."

"Yeah. You can take things at your own pace, now." _Not that you necessarily will._

He places his wine glass on the coffee table, unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs it off, drapes it over the back of the couch. She stares at his chest, the gun beside his ribcage.

"You wore a gun today?"

"There was a crowd, and a lot of open space. We were exposed."

"You mean I was exposed."

He doesn't respond; the answer is yes, it was her he was worried about.He slides the leather straps from his shoulders, lays the holster on the end table beside him, clank of metal gun on glass.

"Devlin called me, while we were at the reception," she says, absently swirling the wine around her glass. "They want me to come in and follow up on my statement, I guess to verify some of the things my father said. I tried to get out of it — I think I've already told them everything I could possibly tell them — but I'm going to have to go in tomorrow."

"How long are you on leave, Syd?"

"They gave me as long as I want. But — I'm not going back, Vaughn."

"You're quitting the Agency?"

"Yes." She stills her hand, looks up at him. "My life has ruined so many others, it's the least I can do for them — for Danny, and Francie. Even Will. Now that Sloane is gone, there's no reason for me to stay."

"Sark is still out there, and the people that got away in that gym. Her double is still out there."

"The only thing revenge has ever brought me is trouble. And if there's one thing I've learned in all of this, it's that revenge doesn't really heal. It's just a distraction," she says, softly. "You get them for me. Or — are you going back, Vaughn?"

An afterthought, for her, the same way it was for him, the realization that his job was a big part of the lie he'd followed, the idea that maybe he should reassess, reconsider.

"Yeah. I thought about it, a little, and yes, I joined the CIA because of my father, because of who I thought he was. But I realized that regardless of how I got here, my job is important to me. I don't want to leave." He pauses. "What are you going to do, if you're not going back to the Agency?"

"Finish my dissertation, first. I've still got a couple more classes to take, too. Once I graduate, I guess I'll try to find a teaching job somewhere. I've got a lot of money saved up — SD-6 paid me pretty well, and I've got two years of salary from the CIA sitting in an account in the Caymans. I could actually take a lot of time off, if I need to. I want to try teaching, though. It's what I was supposed to be doing now."

"Look at both of us, following after our parents' false lives," he says, half-sarcastic, half-sad. He takes a bigger sip of wine; both of their glasses nearly empty already.

"Yeah. I don't want to think about them, or the Agency or — anything, tonight." She drains the rest of her wine, leans closer, reaching over his lap to put her hand on his glass. "You want some more?"

She is close, so close it's hard to breathe. For a moment, made bold by the wine, he thinks of closing the short distance, kissing her. It almost seems like a good idea.

No. He pulls away, hands over his glass. Not on this day.

He watches her rise, head toward the kitchen.

Maybe she's right. Maybe tonight, they try to forget.


	18. 2x6: Ready

Chapter 2.6 — Ready

Friday, March 6, 2003

He wakes in Francie's room, a little headache from the wine, a rush of panic. Attempts to reconstruct last night in his mind —

No, he hadn't kissed her. Hadn't touched her, either, until she'd started crying somewhere through her third glass of wine and he'd held her in the middle of the couch.

She fell asleep, there, and he'd found his stack of blankets sitting on a distant chair, covered her with one, and decided this would be the best place to sleep, the safest.

He rises, walks out into the hallway. Her bedroom door is closed and she is gone from the couch. Into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, and then back to the bathroom. He'll shower now, hopefully be out of the way by the time she wakes up.

She is sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee when he emerges from the bathroom, clean khakis, sweater. Too casual for the JTF, but okay since he won't be there long, he's decided.

"Morning, Syd." She turns, watches him walk into the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she says, softly. "You?"

"I'm okay." He sits down beside her at the counter, drinks his coffee in silence. Considers breakfast, but he's not really hungry. He doubts she is, either.

She sets her mug down. "I'm going to go grab a quick shower and change, then I should be ready to go."

"Actually, it might be better if we took separate cars. I've got another session with Barnett and I'm not sure how long that'll run. Plus I'm supposed to go to dinner with my mother later."

"Oh." A pause. Is she disappointed? "I guess I'll see you there, then."

———

He stops at Weiss' desk before heading to Barnett's office, doesn't see Sydney anywhere in the rotunda.

"Hey. Anything new?"

"Hey yourself," Weiss says. "We sent a forensics team out to Chicago, to check up on your mystery shooter."

"Did they find anything?"

"A lot of dust disturbed up on the balcony, but that was all they came up with. Whoever it was knew how to clean up after himself. We did have some movement on Sark and the double. They broke into some art collector's mansion in Córdoba, we're assuming stole something, and then torched the place."

"You're sure it was them?"

"They put a security guy in the hospital, but he was able to talk. His description was a dead-on match. We still don't know what they were after, and the collector's fifty percent third-degree burns, so we're not sure that we're going to know any time soon. Obviously, this soon after Chicago, we're thinking it might be Rambaldi-related."

"If they're on the move, they may come after Sydney."

"I know. They've expedited installation on her new security system. Should be in by the end of the day."

"She's going to need more than a security system."

"Her place will be under surveillance 24 hours a day. We can have a team at her apartment in under 10 minutes. And she's a trained agent, Mike. What happened with the double — it's not going to happen again. Not to mention the fact that her boss is no longer involved in that whole conspiracy thing. Or her father and mother."

"I just hate the idea that there are all of those people out there who believe in Rambaldi, who believe what was on that document."

"We'll track them down." Weiss glances across the rotunda, at a group of agents walking toward the main conference room. "Hey, I've got a meeting, and I think you do too. But you take care, and I'll see you later."

"Yeah."

Weiss strides off to join the group, and Vaughn starts toward the hallway that leads to Barnett's office. Devlin emerges from that hallway and starts walking in the same direction as Weiss, presumably on his way to the meeting. He stops when he sees Vaughn.

"Agent Vaughn?"

Vaughn walks quickly, closing the distance between them. "Hello, sir."

"Hello. How are you?"

"I'm okay."

"What are you doing here?"

"I, ah, have a meeting with Dr. Barnett."

"And then nothing until next week?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought. Go to your sessions, Agent Vaughn. But I don't want to see you here otherwise. If you don't start actually taking your bereavement leave, I'll have to restrict your access to this facility, and I don't want to have to do that. Are we understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Devlin continues on his way, no doubt late now for the meeting.

———

"Hello, Agent Vaughn. How are you feeling today?"

Barnett was ready for him, this time, poised at the edge of her desk chair, file folder already open in front of her, pen in hand. The question as soon as he'd walked in the door.

He waits to answer, sits on the couch first. "I'm fine."

"Good," she nods. _Does she believe you?_ "Francie Calfo's funeral was yesterday, correct?"

"Yes."

"And how did that go?"

How the fuck do you think it went?

"It was a rough day — a lot harder for Sydney than me, though."

"Of course," she says. "You said in our last session that funerals makes you think of your father — of your father's own funeral. Did you find this was the case yesterday?"

"Yeah. I did think of him some — it's hard not to. But I tried not to focus on it."

She scribbles a quick note in the folder in front of her, heavy ballpoint pen scratching across the paper. "Why not?"

"I don't want to think about him anymore. I mean, it's there. It's always going to be there. There isn't anything I can do about it. I feel like it's time to move on."

"Blocking it out isn't going to help you move past it, Michael."

"It's not blocking it out, or denial, or shock, or whatever. I just want to be happy again. And I think I need to let go of him to do that."

"You can't just say you want to be happy and be happy. It doesn't work that way."

"Yeah, but I can try. Isn't that the first step?"

She cocks her head. Maybe he's found a hole in her logic. Probably not.

"Yes, it is," she says. "But if you take that step too early, this is all going to snap back at you down the road. And it will be much, much worse than if you deal with it now. That's why we're here."

"We've been dealing with it. There's not much to deal with. What do you want me to do? Is there a 12-step program for this? You want me to go? 'Hi, my name is Michael and my father was a bad person.'"

Shit. Calm down. You probably just bought yourself umpteen more weeks on this couch. Don't forget that she has to sign off before they'll let you come back to work.

"I understand that all of this is hard for you to talk about, Michael." She speaks slowly, firmly. "But it's important that we talk about it. That doesn't mean you can't try to be happy, but you also can't avoid what happened. Now, I want to talk about your relationship with your mother."

He sighs, leans back into the couch, and readies himself for her next question.

———

He leaves Barnett's office exhausted; they'd gone the full hour for the first time. Looks for Weiss in the rotunda and finds Sydney instead, sitting at her desk, typing. Quick bursts of her fingers pounding across the keys, then pausing, hanging in the air as she rereads what she's written. Only a few paragraphs on the screen, he notes as he approaches.

"That's awfully short for your statement." He is fairly sure it isn't.

She turns, spinning in her chair. "I already turned in my statement. This is my letter of resignation."

"Wow, Syd. That's awfully fast. Are you sure you don't want to take some time, think about it?"

"I've thought about it plenty." Blunt, sharp. "All I want to do now is go home and try to pull my life back together."

It's easier for you if she isn't here, anyway. No more missions, less to worry about. He lays his hand on her shoulder, the thin black wool of her suit jacket scratchy beneath his fingertips.

"Okay." He pulls his hand back. "I've got dinner with my mom this evening, but I can stop by later, if you want."

"Yeah, if it's not too much trouble." She pauses. "Are you going to tell her?"

"I'm not sure," he says. "I don't know if I can."

———

He picks his mother up at the house and follows her directions to the little seafood restaurant in Malibu. It is sleek — blue-tinged lighting and martinis at the bar. A nice view of the ocean; his mother asks for a table by a window, and the wait is longer, but worth it.

Drinks first, Diet Coke all around, and their waiter — young, freckle-faced, freshman or sophomore in college, probably — hustles off. He opens his menu, wonders when he should tell her. Right at the start? Get it out of the way? Maybe he should ease into it, wait for a good segue somewhere in the conversation.

She speaks first. "How is Sydney?"

"She's — she's holding up pretty well, considering. But everything has been so hard on her."

"The poor thing. No one should ever have to go through that. I remember how you were when Eric was shot. It just broke my heart."

Touch and go for six and a half hours. So scared you could hardly function. He'd called her from the hospital in Barcelona, barely able to choke out what happened.

"We were lucky. He pulled through." _But you looked down that road and it was scary as hell. And it wasn't anything close to what happened with Francie._

"Yes, yes you were," she says. "At least she has you to help her through this. And her friends and family, too, I'm sure."

"Yes." 

She cried alone that night, the first night, cried alone in the bathroom. You were too young to burden and he was gone. Walked out and broke her heart, damn him.

And you'll break it again if you tell her.

She lifts her napkin from the table, places it on her lap, smoothing the creases. "I've been thinking about going to France in the next few months."

"So soon? You just went last year." Her semi-annual trip, to catch up with old friends, shop and walk the streets in Paris. She'd gone for the first time 10 years after his father's death, when she'd finally been able to save up the money for a plane ticket. The timing good for other reasons, as well: he went off to college, she left for Paris.

"I know, dear, but fares are cheap now, and Marie has a new grandchild." She smiles.

She has never pressured him, never suggested it, but he's wondered if she is jealous of Marie, three kids and two grandchildren now. Is she hopeful? Can she tell that Sydney is different? That Sydney is the first time he's really considered it?

Not that it's anywhere close to a sure thing. Not where you are right now. But she did leave the Agency.

"Tell her congratulations for me."

"I will." She's excited, he knows, and she'll spend the time before her trip packing carefully and talking about everything she has planned with Marie and everyone else.

How different would it have been, he wonders, if his father had stayed._ You might still be over there. She'd have been able to stay and have coffee with Marie every day. Watch their kids grow up together._

Of course, it would have changed your life as well. No CIA, probably. No Sydney.

"What else are you going to do, while you're there?"

"I don't know, yet. I've emailed a few people, but I don't have a lot of firm plans. I think I might try to see the house, though. I stopped by, last time, but whoever lives there now wasn't home," she says. "I know we've been here longer, but I loved that house. Your father did, too. I remember when we bought it, he said, 'Susan, this is going to be home.' And it was."

He feels suddenly as if he's betraying her, feels it stabbing at his chest.

The truth, Mom, is that we don't really know what he loved. The house, you, me.

And you have to tell her the truth. What kind of son are you, to keep this from her?

A son who doesn't want to see her hurt.

"I loved that house, too," he says.

At least this is not a lie. But this would be his relationship with her, from now on, the secret he would hold. He'd have to smile and reminisce and pretend he still loves his father, try not to think of the gym in Chicago, the burial.

But if it spares her, maybe it's what he should do.

———

A motion light — new — comes on as he approaches Sydney's door, flooding the front step white-bright.

He knocks, wonders if some CIA tech somewhere is watching him. It takes her awhile to answer, in old jeans and a sweater now, her hair in a messy ponytail.

"Hi. Come on in." She swings the door open, steps aside.

There is a keypad on the wall next to the door, but nothing else has changed, that he can see. They stand in the foyer, facing each other. Staring, waiting. _Somebody should say something. This is where it gets tricky —_

"Sorry it took me so long to answer," she says. "I was in Fran's room. I wanted to start to get some of her things boxed up for her parents."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, so soon? I'm sure Francie's parents would understand if it took you awhile."

"I've been okay, so far. I figured I'd stop if it got too hard. I kind of want to get it done."

"Want some help?"

"Sure, if you don't mind."

He follows her back to Francie's bedroom, one corner filled with boxes. U-Haul — she must have bought them earlier. The bed, already stripped, is piled with clothes, books.

"Why don't you box?" she says. "I'll keep going through the closet. I haven't even started on the shelves, yet. There's tape on the dresser."

"Okay." He grabs an empty box from the U-Haul pile and places it on the bed next to the books. He packs carefully, trying not to waste much space in the box, books on the bottom, clothes on top. Francie's books range from textbooks on management theory to romance novels. The cookbooks, he knows, are in the kitchen, on the shelf above the stove.

"How was dinner, with your mom?" She speaks with her back to him, head half-buried in the closet.

"It was — a lot more uncomfortable than dinner with my mom usually is. I guess maybe I'm going to have to get used to that."

"You didn't tell her."

"I couldn't. It was so hard on her, when he died. I feel like if I tell her, I'm going to bring all that pain back for her, just to ease my own conscience."

"I guess that's one way of looking at it. It's hard to tell what the right thing to do is, in a situation like that," she says.

"Yeah. I feel like maybe I should take some time to think it through, before I decide if I should tell her."

"That's probably a good idea." She crosses the room and halts next to him with an armful of clothing. "My mom stopped by this morning, right after you left. I didn't want to say anything at work. But we talked. It was — it was good."

"You didn't fill out a contact report?"

"I thought about it. But what she said was only for me. And I don't want to turn her in, Vaughn, or give them a chance to capture her. I know she's done some awful things, but she saved my life. And I think — I really believe she loves me."

Not like your father. Irina came back. Irina saved her life.

"Did you turn in your resignation?"

"Yes. Devlin wasn't exactly happy, but he said he understood. They still want me to come in for counseling. I guess I should."

Yeah. You've been through a whole hell of a lot, Syd, and as much as I hate it, there's a reason why they make you do it.

He seals the box with tape from the dresser and carries it to an empty corner, below the window. "Devlin's a good guy. I've worked with him for a long time. But you are going to be a big loss for them."

"I don't care what I am for them." She lays a pile of clothes down, wooden hangers clicking against each other. "I did what I said I was going to do. I did more than what I said I was going to do."

"I'm not saying you didn't, Syd. Hell, without you — without what you did — I'd probably retire still working on the SD-6 case. But it's not going to be easy to replace you. Not at all." _You were the best._

"They'll find somebody, Vaughn. There's always a new agent, the same way there's always a new bad guy. Eventually you just have to put your foot down and say 'that's enough.' And I did, and I'm out, and I don't regret it." She pauses. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Of course."

They work in silence.

———

They pack until late in the night, when his pile of finished boxes blocks out part of the window. At some point, she'd suggested wine, and they'd finished what was left of the second bottle from last night — not much — and started another.

Enough wine to be relaxed, tired, but not really drunk, when he turns to her and suggests that it's late, time to call it a night.

"Yeah." She turns around, stands in front of the closet with her arms crossed. "Thanks for helping. This is a lot more than I would have got done by myself."

"You're welcome." He adds a final box to the pile. "My bag is in my trunk. Let me go grab it."

"Vaughn, you don't have to keep staying here."

Her statement snaps straight through him, and he stands there, motionless, stunned, for a moment. _Maybe this was never about anything more than comfort. Maybe she's healed enough to remember how much you hurt her. Did you really think she'd just let you back into her life so easily?_

"I'm sorry, Syd. I thought you wanted me here. I'll let myself out." He rushes toward the doorway, tilts his head back and blinks to control the tears he feels coming.

You can't just walk out of here like this. For good, maybe.

He gathers himself, looks back at her. He must keep his voice level, can't let her see how much that hurt.

"We should talk some time, later, about us. If there is still an us."

He enters the hallway, pulls his car keys from his pants pocket, clutches them tight in his hand. _There isn't an us because you said it was over. It's your own fault. You did all the damage and now you have to deal with the consequences._

"Vaughn."

He stops, turns. She is standing at the other end of the hallway, hand on the doorframe.

"I didn't want you to leave," she says, softly. "That wasn't what I meant. I just didn't want you to feel burdened, like you had to keep staying here."

"It's never been a burden, Syd. Not even close."

"But what is it, Vaughn? I mean, we were over. You said we were over. And I know everything's changed since then, but has that?"

"I don't know."

"You're right. We do need to talk." She releases her hand from the doorframe, walks past him, into her own bedroom.

He slips the keys back into his pocket and follows, cautious. Sits beside her at the foot of the bed, a little stretch of cream-colored comforter between them, his feet barely touching the floor. Facing the closet; he needs to prepare, to take a little time before he looks at her.

Silence. The closet doors are open, funeral dress hanging front and center, her mother's books up on the shelf.

"Did you mean it?" she asks, her voice a shock in the still room. "What you said to your father?"

He turns his head, and he is not quite ready for her eyes. "Of course I did."

"When you said you loved me?"

"Especially that, Syd. I told you. Whatever happened between us — whatever's going to happen — that hasn't changed."

"Then how could you just walk away like you did?" Her voice a fierce whisper, tears pooling in her eyes. "How could you just leave me?"

"I didn't just walk away. God, Syd, you think that's what it was? Leaving you — that was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But it would have been harder to stay. I did what I did because I love you. I thought you knew that."

Her hand at her face, wiping away tears, a long, shaky breath. "I did know, I guess. I think I was just too angry to see it at the time."

"I never meant to hurt you, Syd. That's the last thing I wanted to do."

She looks at him, her face red, wet, sad. And yet somewhere, he thinks he sees hope.

"All those reasons why you left, Vaughn, they're not valid anymore. I'm out of the CIA — you wouldn't have to worry about me anymore."

"I know. I want to come back, Syd. I want there to be an us again." _So badly it hurts._

"I want that, too," she says. "But the one-sided decisions and the secrets and the silence — we can't do that again. Either of us."

"No, we can't. And Syd, I'm sorry I did it."

"So am I."

Her hand is close to his on the comforter. He trails his fingers over the quilting, picks it up, her grip instantly tight.

"Vaughn, I should have said earlier — I should have said that I love you."

"Syd." His voice wobbles, tears at his eyes again. _Did she know how much you needed to hear that?_

Did you?

He reaches out, touches her wet cheek, her trembling chin. Leans in slowly, so slowly, the kiss tentative, delicate, when it finally comes. Then deeper, beyond reassuring, beyond what he'd meant it to be. And this, this is how you forget, he thinks. And they will get it right, this time, because they have to.

The kiss trails through a long, breathy end, and he pulls back, just a little. She turns her head and slips her arms around his back, her cheek against his. He does the same, clinging to her there, feeling closer to peace than he has in a long time.

"Stay here, tonight," she whispers.

Here, her bed.

"I will."

— End Part II —


	19. 3x1: While the getting's good

— Part III —

Chapter 3.1 — While the getting's good

Monday, June 16, 2003

He misses the days when they would linger over coffee until late in the morning. Sit close on the couch in pajamas and talk, finally rising to change, go for a walk, or maybe a run.

He does not miss that she spent many of those mornings in tears, especially in the beginning.

That had ended when he'd gone back to work, and for the last few months, he has risen alone, showered and changed into whatever suit he's brought from home. Joined her at the kitchen counter for a quick cup of coffee and a kiss goodbye, and then left her alone.

Today, though, he makes coffee, breakfast to the sound of her rushing from bedroom to bathroom and back again. Clicking down the hallway in dress shoes, into the kitchen.

He has seen the suit before — jacket and slim, knee-length skirt, simple black — but it has been a long time. It's been a long time since he's seen her dressed up, period, and he studies her approach, the perfect twist of her hair into the tight knot behind her head, little touch of makeup, leather tote swinging from her shoulder.

She halts a few feet away from him, slings the tote off of her arm and drops it on the counter. Looks back at him, still standing, watching. "What?"

He steps closer, lays his hands flat on her lapels. "Nothing. It's just been awhile since I've seen you in a suit. You look great, Syd."

"Thank you."

She is wearing a simple beige top underneath the suit jacket, her neck bare, which is fortunate. He'd been worried about that.

He reaches into his pocket, fingers the necklace there. Second-guesses himself again; she won't like it, won't like the sentiment, won't want to wear it today for whatever reason. _Just get on with it._

The chain is thin, delicate in his fingers, glinting gold when he finally pulls it out, brandishing it in front of her for a moment before he speaks, feeling clumsy. "I, ah, got you something."

"Vaughn." She extends a hand, tentative, takes it from him, and holds the simple pendant up in front of her eyes. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"It's garnet — for luck." He knows this because he spent his lunch break last Friday quizzing attendants at three different jewelry counters. The third, a black-haired twentysomething, had produced a gemstone chart and walked him through it.

"I love it." Her smile is broad, beautiful. "Help me put it on?"

She hands it back to him, and it takes him a few tries before he can keep the clasp open long enough to catch it on the tiny gold loop behind her neck. He lets it settle gently on her skin, the pendant falling just below her collarbone. His hands still on her neck, he pulls her the short distance to his mouth, kisses her thoroughly.

They break apart before they would in an evening kiss, him to sit at the counter and start on pancakes that may well be cold by now, but at least he's tried, her to grab a cup of coffee.

She sits beside him and picks at a lone pancake, cutting it into tiny pieces. No syrup, likely no intention of eating more than a few bites. She doesn't eat in the morning, he's learned. He'd worried about that at first, thought it was a sign of grief, but she assured him it wasn't, said she'd never had an appetite early in the day.

He looks over at her. "Are you ready? For the interview?"

She'd called to tell him about it Friday morning, a temporary position the school offered the students in her program, teaching two classes for a professor who needed to go on medical leave. Said she was going to put her name in; it was a great opportunity, and well-timed, for her.

"I think so. I'm a little nervous, actually."

"Really?"

"It's just so perfect," she says. "Something that would give me some teaching experience and still leave me time to work on my dissertation — it's too perfect, you know?"

"It is perfect for you, Syd," he allows. "But I'm sure you'll do great."

She is healing. Slowly, but still healing, her interest in the job the latest sign of this. He has worried about her since he started work again, leaving her here in the apartment all day, alone with her grief. Only recently has she started studying — what a relief it had been to come home one day and find her reading, really reading, not sitting on the couch with her finger in the spine of _Doctor Zhivago_, staring into space. Last week she'd registered for classes, and now this. It is a big step, a good step.

The process has been much harder for her than for him. He goes whole days, sometimes, without thinking about his father, as much the work of his talks with Sydney as his hours with Barnett, down to two a week, now. But his hurt lies in betrayal, not loss — easier to get past, once the anger dissipates. Easier to ignore, too; the father who has been gone most of his life still gone, not a gaping hole in his life like Francie's absence has been for Sydney.

It has helped, of course, that his mother has spent most of the last two months in France, and their phone conversations have been short, held at odd hours, centered on her experiences there. He has not told her about his father, does not plan to.

No, it has been Sydney he's worried about. He's watched her slip into moments where she seems genuinely happy. Followed, always, with a sober, guilty face, as if she's suddenly remembered that her best friend is dead and there should be no laughing, no smiling.

"She'd want you to be happy, you know," he told her, once.

"I know," she replied. "I'd want the same thing for her. But that doesn't make it easy."

But she has been better, lately, and the job — something concrete to focus on — will only help. Someday, she will smile freely, some night will be the last one she cries. And maybe that time is not far off. He wants these things for her, wants them badly.

He rises. 7:30, and he really should have left by now. She looks up at him, waits for him to lean in for a quick kiss, lips only.

He has left his bag and yesterday's suit in her bedroom, and walks down the hallway to retrieve them. Glancing at Francie's old room on the way, completely empty behind the door that has remained closed since they mailed the last boxes and gave away the furniture. Sydney has made no attempt to look for a roommate, and he thinks, not for the first time, that she is waiting, wants to reserve the extra space for him, his things. They must be nearing time for him to move in — the suit bag has become a permanent, almost absurd, fixture in the window of his car.

He will not suggest it, not yet. Her apartment, her decision. He would only bring it up much farther along, if she hasn't. Ask the tough questions: Are we stagnant? Don't you think it's time to take the next step? How badly did I really wreck things all those months ago?

But they are far from there, yet, and he does not think he will need to. Already, she has given him a key, some space in her closet, and although he tries not to, sometimes he feels wildly optimistic.

He feels like he belongs here.

———

He has to speed to make it to the 8 a.m. briefing on time. Slips in next to Weiss just before Devlin sits and clears his throat, chair wheels squealing across the floor.

"Good morning, people. We've had some developments overnight. Agent Bristow will fill you in. Jack?"

Jack Bristow rises. He must be tired — he has been working 12 and 14 hour days since his clearance was restored — but he doesn't look it. He holds a thin silver remote control in his hand, clicks once to turn on the projector.

Sark and Francie's double black-and-white and grainy, up on the screen in the front of the room, number one priority of the JTF right now. They've been busy the last few months, breaking into a bank in Geneva, a storage facility in Helsinki, an old government building in Kiev. Analysis has suggested that they are searching for more Rambaldi artifacts, and Alain Christophe is bankrolling them.

All of the equipment from Chicago is stored under armed guard, but it's still enough to make him worry, that they're still searching for Rambaldi's secret to eternal life, and they still may want Sydney. The CIA — likely under direction of Jack Bristow — has said much the same in an official warning to her. That had come with a permit to carry a concealed weapon, a supplement to the security system at her apartment. Vaughn still wonders if it will be enough, if they do decide to come after her.

He worries about the mystery sniper, as well, but the search for him has been futile. They'd put out feelers in the intelligence world, had a half-dozen analysts study profiles of known wanted snipers, and ultimately reclassified and deprioritized the case.

Jack clicks the remote again, a new picture flashing on the screen. Unidentifiable man slumped over, bullet in his head, on a leopard-print couch.

"We just got word of this a few hours ago. Sark and the double entered a club in Bangkok at around nine o'clock Thailand time, presumably to meet with a contact — this man. Fortunately, we had an asset in place who was able to pull the security video from the club during that time."

Jack clicks again. Video, this time. Sark and the double striding up to the now-dead man, shaking his hand, sitting beside him. Sark hands over a briefcase and the man pops it open, runs his fingers over the money inside. He nods, hands Sark a cardboard tube.

Sark reaches inside the tube, slides out a document, and Vaughn knows what it will be even before Sark unrolls it. A Rambaldi manuscript, certainly, but the video is too grainy to make out details. Sark carefully rolls the document back up, slides it into the tube. He stands with Francie's double, who pulls a gun from behind her back, straightens her arm, and drills the man in the forehead.

He slumps over, and the video stops on the frame of him lying there, blood seeping around the leopard spots. Vaughn is struck with relief, sudden and strong, that Sydney is no longer working here, that she was not around to see the woman who looks just like her best friend execute a man point-blank.

"We're working on the video, to see if we can clean up the manuscript and get some idea of what was on it," Jack says. "Needless to say, they're on the move. The fact that they shot their contact and risked this exposure, rather than handing over the money, suggests that they be running out of funding."

Or they may just be cold-blooded killers.

Jack clicks off the projector and sits, laying the remote on the table.

"We're looking for options here, people," Devlin says. "Any ideas you all might have about how to go about catching them, I want to hear them."

Weiss speaks, which surprises him. Devlin makes this call at nearly every briefing, usually met with silence.

"I was thinking — awhile back, Agents Bristow — Sydney Bristow — and Vaughn set up the sale of a fake Rambaldi serum. At the time, they were trying to catch Alexander Khasinau, and ultimately the operation failed, but it was a good idea. So I was thinking, maybe that's the sort of thing we should try to do — maybe put the word out that there's a Rambaldi something-or-other somewhere, and set a trap."

Devlin nods. "I like it. What do the rest of you think?"

"It would have to be convincing," Jack says. "If they get the slightest indication that things are off, it's likely they'll bolt. But it is a chance to go on the offensive, which we've yet to do."

Devlin waits a few moments for dissent, but it's clear he's sold. "Good. Jack, why don't you draft up an operation. I'm sure Agent Weiss can assist you, if necessary. We'll reconvene later to go over the mission specs. Anything else?"

When the room is silent, Devlin rises, everyone else following, filing out into the rotunda. Vaughn walks with Weiss, over to their desks. He took over Sydney's old space when he returned here, and every once and awhile he walks back and expects to see her sitting there, typing away as if she'd never left. It happens less and less, and not today.

"Way to put a feather in your cap, there," Vaughn says.

"Yeah. We'll see how long it lasts. Probably about as long as it takes me to get on Jack's nerves during mission planning."

"I can't say I envy you."

"How are you and the elder Bristow getting along these days?"

"My main contact with Jack is when he comes over for dinner once a week, and what little conversation there is goes on entirely between him and Sydney," Vaughn says. "That and when he reminds me to be careful and watch after Syd every time Sark and the double blow something up, or kill someone, or steal something."

"Like you need reminding."

"Yeah, exactly."

"Speaking of, there's no new intel on the shooter."

"What?"

"Every day, you come in here looking for new intel on that balcony sniper, despite the fact that we haven't had anything active in more than two months," Weiss says. "So I figured I'd just, you know, get it out of the way."

They reach Weiss' desk, and he sits, starts the login process on his computer, Vaughn standing over his shoulder, looking down at the cluttered desk, file folders everywhere, coffee mug stained brown near the edge. "I'd say I'm sorry, Eric, but I'm not. We can't forget about that guy."

Weiss turns, looks up at him. "Look. I know you're worried about Sydney, but the guy's gone. I mean, it's like he took the shot and disappeared off the face of the earth. He hasn't made any kind of move on her, and we don't even know that he's a bad guy."

"We don't know he's a good guy, either. I know that Sark and the double are much more obvious threats, but I don't want anyone out there — anyone — that might want to try to fulfill that twisted prophecy. I just don't want him appearing six months down the road and surprising us all."

"He's one guy, Mike. And, civilian or not, Sydney can take care of herself."

"She didn't do so well with that in Chicago. And she shouldn't have to keep looking over her shoulder. She left this life — she should get to leave that, too."

Weiss picks up the coffee cup, stares down into it as if he isn't sure how it came to be on his desk. "Be concerned about it. Just don't let it eat you up, okay?"

"Okay."

———

The day crawls, as have most since he's been back. His assignments are simple, reviews of operations drawn up by others, the occasional assist to Analysis.

Today, he scrutinizes two operations, sends back a few comments, and waits for lunch, paging through intel on Sark, the double and the sniper, looking, as always, for something that's been missed. Nothing has been missed. Nothing he can find, anyway.

He considers — not for the first time — talking to Devlin, asking for some more challenging assignments. For some assignments, period. _You need to do it today. You're bored out of your mind, and it's only going to get worse._

His cell phone ringing — Sydney, 11:43 a.m. Her interview must be over.

"Hey, Syd."

"Hi." She sounds quiet, and he wonders if it went badly. _How could it? She's qualified, more than capable. Way more than capable._

"How'd it go?"

"Fine, I think."

"That's all? Fine?"

"I don't know, Vaughn. It's hard to tell. I haven't exactly interviewed for a lot of jobs."

"Do you know when they'll make a decision?"

"They said they'd call. They didn't say when."

"Syd, I'm sure you did great. And if they don't pick you, it's their loss."

"Thanks. You going to be home on time?"

Aren't I always? "Yes."

"I'll see you later, then. Bye."

"Bye, Syd."

He presses end, sets the cell phone on his desk next to the computer keyboard. Picks up his office phone and dials Devlin's secretary.

He'll push for an appointment today, he decides.

———

"Agent Vaughn, come on in. Have a seat."

Devlin occupies the same office Kendall did, and he's made few changes, although word in the JTF is that he'll be here permanently, that they're going to bring in an assistant director to take over some of his lesser duties back at headquarters.

Vaughn pulls back a gunmetal-gray chair, sits and waits for Devlin to ask why he's here.

He doesn't. "Before we get started, I wanted to let you know — they've brought charges against George Wolford, based in part on your work."

Feather in your cap, now. Even if it's no longer relevant.

"Thank you, sir. I hadn't been aware of that."

"Yes. I should have mentioned earlier that they'd moved the investigation along." Devlin's reading glasses are perched precariously close to the edge of his nose, and he pushes them up with an index finger, glances down at the papers on his desk, then back to Vaughn. "So what brings you here?"

He folds his hands on his lap, feels the urge to fidget, but doesn't allow it. "I wanted to talk about my workload."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, since I came back, it feels like it's been really light — like I haven't had a whole lot to do. I wanted to, I guess, say that I feel I can take on more. I would like to take on more."

"Dr. Barnett recommended that we keep your caseload light right now."

"Why? I mean, she cleared me to come back. Shouldn't that mean I'm ready?"

"Michael, we take these things slowly, and we pay attention to the shrinks. We didn't use to." Devlin pauses, adjusts his glasses again, needlessly this time. "I was station chief in Beirut for two and a half years. In that time, we had two agents captured. They called for an extraction, but by the time we got there, it was too late. They both got worked over pretty good — one of them didn't make it. The one that did, we gave him some time off, offered him counseling. He said he was fine, we said okay, and we sent him back out in the field."

Devlin pulls the glasses off altogether, rubs his eyes. "He didn't make it two weeks before he snapped. Spent most of the next year in the psych ward, and he never did return to active duty."

"What happened to me was hardly — that."

"No. If it had been that you'd still be on leave. But what happened to you was not insubstantial," Devlin says. "My point, Michael, is that you're a good agent. We'd rather ease you back into things and be sure you were ready."

Devlin raises his hand before Vaughn can object. "I know you feel ready, and believe me, we could use you. But I defer to the doc on this one."

"Is that why she hasn't signed off on my field rating?"

"Yes. But I wasn't aware you wanted to return to the field."

Do you? You know what it did to you when she was out there. Would it be the same for her?

"I don't think so," Vaughn says. "But I'd like the option to be open."

"I understand. But I would much rather put you on operational planning. It's what I was trying to get you back to before the mess in Chicago."

"I would like that, sir."

"Good." Devlin nods. "Then take this time, take it easy. I promise you, before you know it, you'll be wishing you had this workload again."

That's doubtful. But what more can you do?

He thanks Devlin and exits quietly, back to his desk and nothing to do.

———

His key is still shiny-silver, sharp around the edges, cut less than a month ago. He slips through the front door, expecting to find her in the kitchen, maybe the living room. But both are empty, silent and dark save for a bit of sun streaming through the windows.

A little surge of fear. He reminds himself that it's a big apartment; she might have gone for a run, to the store. He will not pull his gun, not yet. He'd done that last week and hated her sad sigh as she'd walked out of the bathroom, the disappointed way she'd said his name, felt them deep inside.

"Syd?" Calling it out, loud but hopefully casual.

"I'm out here!" Faint, from the patio. Mild sunny day, better to go outside. He should have figured. He should not have worried.

You will always worry. Always.

He drops his briefcase by the door, pounds through the keycode sequence that arms the security system. Then across the living room, out the patio door. She is lying on one of the long benches, stretched out on the cushion, her head propped up on a stack of pillows. Changed into cotton shorts and a tank top, his necklace still hanging from her neck, reading an old, leather-bound copy of _ Hamlet_.

He stands near the doorway. "I hope you're rereading. Even I've read _ Hamlet_."

Sydney sets the book down open on the tile, tilts her head back to look at him. "Did you read it in freshman English?" Rising, her smile wide. "I got the job."

She is halfway to him already, and he clears the distance, pulling her into a tight hug, her body warm through the thin cotton. "Syd, that's great."

She pulls back, stands with her face just in front of his. "They called me just after lunch and said the job was mine if I wanted it. Obviously, I wanted it."

"Wait a minute. You knew about this all afternoon and didn't call?"

"I wanted to tell you in person." She grins, playful, leans in for a long, slow kiss. "You're not mad, are you?"

"No, of course not. I figured you'd get the job, Syd. You're capable of anything — definitely this. I don't know why you were so worried."

"It wasn't that I didn't think I was qualified," she says, stepping back to take a seat on the bench. He sits beside her, sliding his arm across her back. "But it's hard to believe anything in my life can go right, Vaughn. Ever since I joined SD-6 all those years ago — I thought what I was doing was right, and that ended up being completely wrong.

"Ever since then, since I found out the truth, it feels like anything good I've come across has been twisted and taken away from me. Now I feel like there's a chance to turn that around, but it's hard to believe in it. It's hard to believe that can really happen."

"It can, Syd." He pulls her closer, her head heavy on his shoulder. "The Alliance is gone. Sloane is dead. You're out of the spy world."

"Yeah. That's why I have a state-of-the-art security system and I carry a gun more often than I did when I actually worked in intelligence."

"That's just a precaution." He says it too quickly — how can he convince her when he can't even convince himself?

"Right, and I'm going to have to be dealing with precautions for the rest of my life, aren't I?"

"I don't know, Syd. But I do know that you can't live your life waiting for something bad to happen." _You can do enough worrying for the both of you. She should get to be free, now._ "And I think getting the job you really wanted should be cause for celebration, not worry. We should go out, to dinner — celebrate."

"Vaughn — "

"Come on." He rises, takes her hand and pulls her to standing beside him. "Dress up. We'll go somewhere nice."

———

"You know what I think we should do? I think we need to order a really expensive bottle of champagne."

They are seated at a booth in a hidden nook of one of the better restaurants he knows. Beverly Hills, French, pricey but worth it, the table lit mostly with a dim, low-slung overhead light and two votive candles between their water glasses.

"Vaughn, it's just a job. It's not even a permanent job." She wears a simple but painfully well-fitting little black dress this time — the first time they've been somewhere this nice since they've been back together. The candlelight flickering golden across her downy skin and she looks stunning, he thinks, absolutely stunning.

"It's not just a job, Sydney. You said it yourself, earlier — it's a new beginning, for you." He pauses, looks down at the candles, the crease in the tablecloth. "God, I wasn't sure what to make of you, when we first started working together — "

"I thought you wanted to throttle me." She grins, and her eyes sparkle.

"There may have been a few occasions, yes." Laughing with her, continuing. "But as I got to know you, I thought, 'Here's this incredible woman who's been through so much pain, and she just keeps trying.' And I watched you struggle with everything in your life, and it killed me to know there was no end in sight for you. But this is it. This is the end, Syd. So it's a lot more than a job."

"Vaughn." Tears pooling in her eyes, she rises, leans across the table to touch his cheek, kiss him. "Thank you," she whispers, sitting back.

They lapse into silence, and he is glad when their waiter — 40s, graying, impeccably tuxedoed — arrives and asks what they'd like to drink. Sydney doesn't protest when he asks for a bottle of Taittinger, and the waiter promises it will be out shortly. He leaves them with two leather-and-parchment menus and strides off.

Vaughn pages through his, not really hungry — this was just an excuse to get her out, see her happy. He decides, folds the menu, lays it on the table and waits for her to do the same.

"When do you start?"

"The job?"

He nods.

"Technically, right now. My first class is in about two months, but it feels like it's going to come up really fast. I want to make sure I'm really well prepared."

You'll both be busy, soon. You knew this wouldn't last.

"We should go somewhere," he says, a bit surprised at himself. He has thought about it idly, but hadn't planned on bringing it up tonight.

"Go somewhere?"

"Yeah. Take a little trip, a vacation. While you've still got some time and my caseload is light."

She glances down at her menu.

"Is it too soon? God, Syd, I'm so sorry."

"No, no." She looks back up. "That's not it. I mean, I'm still sad sometimes — it'll always hurt. But I know Fran would have wanted me to move on with my life. I'm just worried about having enough time to prepare for my classes."

"Don't they already have the classes pretty well prepared for you? Surely the professor you're filling in for had some plans in place — it's freshman English, right? Isn't there some sort of standard curriculum?"

"Yeah, but I want to reread the books, think about what I want to discuss, what I want to test them on — "

"You've still got plenty of time to do that, Syd. And you can read on the plane, or by the pool, in a cafe. Read someplace that isn't in L.A. Wouldn't that be better?" He pauses; she looks close to convinced. "Come on, Syd. Who knows when we'll get this chance again?"

"Where would we go?"

"Wherever you want." He has not thought nearly that far in advance, although he's got a few ideas. Italy, France, the Caribbean, maybe. "You pick it."

She reaches across the table, picks up her water glass and takes a sip. Her eyes distant, considering.

"Rome," she smiles. "Let's go to Rome."

———

Her place is dark, quiet, and secure, according to the system, when they return.

She turns on one light in the living room, just enough for them to see to the bedroom. It is late — they shouldn't have stayed out that long, shouldn't have drank that much, and he will need to call a travel agent tomorrow morning, talk to Devlin about the time off.

But she had been smiling and laughing through dinner, talking about how she hadn't been a tourist in so long, caught up quickly in the idea of the trip, asking him about his favorite parts of the city. And that was surely worth the late night, the sleep he'll miss.

He follows her into the bedroom, stands at the foot of the bed and watches her place her purse on the dresser. His heart pounding; he never knows what to do at this point, anymore.

Back in the early days, before Chicago, before the funerals — before he'd left her — this would have been a sure thing. Back when they were still new to each other, this evening — the fancy dinner, her dress, the champagne — would have been a clear precursor to one of those nights they'd stay up late, making love, talking, making love again.

Tonight he waits, as he has since they've been back together, for her to initiate. Remembers the first time she did, a quiet night on the couch, when he was just beginning to think she was healing. When she'd kissed him, the old way. Not the loving, reassuring things they'd been sharing — I love you, it's okay, don't cry.

No, this was different, this was I want you, and it was clear, and he'd been startled. Pulled away, searched her eyes and asked if she was sure. Yes, she'd said, yes, and he had wanted her, but he was cautious, so painfully cautious that night. So sure that she would wake guilty in the morning, cry after, or during, even, and that wasn't something he would be able to handle.

But she hasn't, not that time, not after. And she is getting better, she is healing, but this is still hers to begin, and he is not sure when that will change. So he watches as she turns, steps closer, right in front of him.

"Tonight was amazing, Vaughn. Thank you."

She lays a warm hand on his shoulder, leans in and kisses him that way — yes, definitely that way — trails her hand up to his neck and starts to work on his already-loosened tie. And it is easy, now, to kiss her back, to lay his hands on her waist, taut under the dress. He knows her well now, her body no longer a surprise, but still he wants to peel it off slowly, savor every inch of skin revealed. She does this to him, always has, and he's never quite been able to figure out why.

He pulls her hips into his and they kiss, long and slow, his tie sliding to the floor. Her eyes are dark; his are too, probably, the champagne lingering in him. Her hands on the buttons of his jacket, his fingers grasping the zipper in the middle of her back, sliding it down, nearly to her tailbone. Her bare back hot, smooth under his hands, everything so good, so right, now, and when she pulls away to speak, it is with a breathless whisper:

"Vaughn, this is the happiest I've been since — before."

"Me too," he tells her. "Me too."


	20. 3x2: Anchor

Chapter 3.2 — Anchor

Tuesday, June 17, 2003

He leaves work at noon, after a thorough review of Weiss' and Jack Bristow's operation. They have already leaked that a Finnish collector is selling a substantial portion of his holdings at auction in London, asked a select few field agents to tell their contacts that something in the lot is Rambaldi-related, and set the description for one of the items at the auction house: "Journal, 15th or 16th century, language and contents unknown."

The items will be transported by plane, flown out of Helsinki on Thursday evening. Transfer onto the plane the obvious — just obvious enough, they hope — weak spot. Jack and Weiss have prepared plans to catch them at any point in the process, but they expect Sark and the double to attempt to intercept the document at the plane.

He'd suggested a few changes — minor, mostly. Jack Bristow is damned good at drawing up operations — if he were anyone else, Vaughn might even ask for pointers. He suspects that the only reason he'd been asked to review it at all is because Devlin took pity on him.

And then you up and asked him if you could leave for two weeks. Maybe when you come back, there'll actually be some work for you to do.

He lets himself into the apartment, finds the kitchen lights are on, the dishwasher running. Feels relieved, walks through the apartment until he finds Sydney in her bedroom, examining the nearly empty suitcase on her bed.

"I called the travel agent on my way home," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "We're all set. Flight leaves at 7:35 tomorrow evening."

She looks up, tank top dangling from her hand. "I still can't believe you turned around a vacation that fast."

"I worked out of Station Rome for a year, Syd. I also happen to know a good travel agent."

"We could have waited until at least the end of the week, you know." She rolls the tank top into a tight little ball — better for space and less wrinkles, she'd told him the first time he watched her pack for a mission — and places it in the top corner of her suitcase.

"I didn't want to give you time to change your mind."

She begins rooting through the small pile of clothes on the bed beside the suitcase. "How did you convince Devlin to give you that much time off so quickly?"

"I really haven't been doing a whole lot there, yet, and he said they want me to take it slow. So I just asked if I could take some more time off — out of my vacation days, this time. He wasn't too happy about the short notice, but he approved it. Maybe he just wants me to stop bugging him."

She abandons the pile of clothes on the bed, walks back to her open closet and stares at the contents. "It's been so long since I've been on a real vacation, I don't even know where to start packing."

"Syd, you have to have packed more suitcases than 99 percent of the people on this planet."

"It's different, for missions." She pushes aside a section of clothes, hangers screeching across the bar, rifles through a few sundresses. "I used to just have set things I'd take — mostly practical, except for whatever I'd need for the mission. And I doubt I'll be needing a wig cap or a lockpick kit on vacation."

"You're not going to be able to take your gun on the plane," he realizes. "Your permit is just for California."

"I wasn't planning on taking it," she says. "You're going to be carrying, right?"

"Yes."

"That ought to be enough. I'll be with you the whole time."

"Syd — "

"This is my vacation, Vaughn. I don't want to be packing while I'm sightseeing." She pulls a floral sundress from its hanger, walks it over to the suitcase and begins to roll the thin material.

"If you change your mind, I'm not sure what kind of paperwork we can put together, but I could have Weiss look into it."

"I won't change my mind." She tucks the little ball of sundress into a corner of the suitcase.

He sits on the edge of the bed, watches her walk back to the closet to make another selection. It has been months since she moved her mother's books from the top shelf, replaced them with some of Francie's photo boxes. Irina's books are back on the bottom bookshelves, now, two rows of expensive leather first editions, red and brown and black.

Placed there with some kind of love, not like his father's journals, handed to him in a box by Weiss on his first day back. Tell the Agency they can keep them, he'd said, handing the box back. Weiss had asked if he was sure. _Yes. I don't need those things around. I don't need another reminder of who he was._

"I called my mom this morning, to tell her I'd be out of town," he says, watching a much more formal red dress go into the suitcase. "She said she'd still like to meet you, maybe have dinner, if we have time before we leave."

"I would really like to finally meet her."

It is easier for her, now that she no longer feels guilt for what her mother supposedly did all those years ago. _No, it's you with the guilt, now._

"I'll call her and tell her we can make it, then," he says. "You think you can be done packing by then?"

"Don't push it, Vaughn."

———

She is not done packing, although she has made substantial progress, when he reminds her they should be leaving soon.

"Okay. Just give me a sec to change."

"We're just going over to her house — she thought that would be less hectic than a restaurant. What you have on is fine."

"Vaughn, I'm not going to meet your mother in jeans and a t-shirt. Especially if you're still wearing a suit."

She pulls a skirt and blouse from the closet, changes quickly, slips on a pair of low-heeled sandals. He doesn't ask why she can dress so fast when it takes her so long to pack. Maybe she packs slowly because she can, because she likes that things are different, now.

Sydney walks over to the dresser mirror, runs her fingers through her hair a few times. Spins to face him. "Do I look okay?"

"Syd, you looked a hell of a lot better than okay in the jeans, and you look a hell of a lot better than okay in that."

She smiles, pulls her purse off of the bed, leads them into the hallway, out the front door — security engaged — and to his car.

He drives, wonders if she's nervous. He feels tense, tight himself; he hasn't seen his mother in person since she returned from France Sunday afternoon. Things between them were strained, at least on his side, before she left, and he was relieved when their interactions were reduced to brief phone conversations. Even then, she'd talked of visiting the old house, how she remembered him playing catch with his father on the lawn, all those happy memories in that house.

It should be okay this time — she'll be far more interested in Sydney than talking about him. _It's not like she talks about him all the time, anyway._

It just kills you every time she does.

Left turn onto the street with the little white houses, braking while a group of kids clear their game of roller hockey from the street. Into her driveway, the children already reconvening.

"Is this where you grew up?" Sydney asks.

"Yeah. My mom was originally from the West Coast, so we moved here when I was eight. It was easier for her, to be close to family. She's lived here ever since."

A whole block full of families, and only one of them without a dad, back then. That has changed, divorces and young professional couples who won't start families until later in life, if ever.

"It's nice." She pops her door open, steps out and waits for him to walk around the car.

He takes her hand and they walk together to the front door. He rings the bell and his mother answers before the chimes have finished, dressed in pants and a blouse — Sydney's decision to change probably a good one.

"Welcome, welcome!" She holds the door wide open, waves her hand for them to come inside. "I'm so happy we could finally do this. Come on in."

They follow her in, his hand still locked around Sydney's. His father temporarily forgotten, nervous now because he wants Sydney to be the last woman he has to introduce to his mother.

"Mom, this is Sydney Bristow." He releases her hand, slips his arm around her shoulders instead. "Sydney, Susan Vaughn."

His mother reaches out, shakes Sydney's newly freed hand. "Jack Bristow's daughter?"

"Yes," Sydney says.

"What a strange coincidence!" His mother turns to Vaughn. "Your father and Jack used to be good friends. He and Laura would come over for dinner all the time, before we moved to France. Even then, they'd come to visit, occasionally."

So they could meet with Dad, pick up Rambaldi intel from his precious journals.

He takes a deep breath, vaguely aware of Sydney, drawing slow, calming circles on his back with her hand.

His mother continues. "I don't think I've seen Jack since your mother died. Such a shame." She reaches out, touches Sydney's shoulder. "And then your friend, too. I'm so sorry, dear."

Her mother isn't dead and your father wasn't good and how the hell are you going to survive this dinner?

"Thank you," Sydney says. "The flowers were beautiful, Mrs. Vaughn."

"Call me Susan, and you're welcome," she says. "I take it you went into the family business, as well?"

"I actually didn't know what my father did until after I joined the CIA," Sydney says. "He was on an undercover assignment for a long time."

"Oh. How interesting." His mother gestures to the dining room. "Well, I don't mean to make the two of you stand in the foyer. Why don't we go eat? I hope you like Italian, Sydney. I had to do carryout — I wanted to try to cook something, but I just didn't have time today. One of the patients I've been working with — she's not doing well."

She gets the sad, distant look on her face that he has seen too many times, usually after the long nights, the times she'd come home late, even later than she was supposed to. _I'm so sorry I couldn't help you with your homework, honey. It's okay, Mom, I got it._

Do your homework and get good grades, go to college and join the CIA, just like him. And all the while, he was out there, and he wasn't anyone you should have wanted to emulate.

"Michael, why don't you show Sydney to the dining room? I left some things warming in the oven — I didn't want them sitting on the table too long."

His mother walks straight down the hallway, the more direct route to the kitchen. He takes Sydney through the living room, watches her linger first on the newer pictures and then the older ones, with his father. He stops and stares at the flag on the shelf, wants to throw it across the room, watch the glass on the front of the case shatter against the wall. _He doesn't deserve that fucking flag. He doesn't deserve these pictures, her love._

"Come on." Sydney, pulling at his hand.

It will be okay. You'll get through. Sydney's here. She'll get you through.

They sit down at a table already filled with far more food than the three of them could eat. His mother has transferred everything out of whatever Styrofoam or foil containers it came in, put it in her good china. She places one last bowl — fettucine alfredo — on the table, along with a bottle of wine. One of his favorites, probably fresh from France.

"Sydney, do you want wine to drink? Or would you like something else?"

"Wine would be wonderful. Thank you."

His mother pours each of them a generous glass, then sits. The small dining room seems full, with three people here instead of two. He wonders if it feels empty with just one, lonely when his mother sits down to dinner.

"Dig in, dear," his mother says. "Guests go first, in this house."

Sydney reaches for the bowl nearest her, and they are quiet for a few minutes, save for spoons clinking on serving bowls.

"So Michael tells me you're a nurse?"

He glances over at Sydney, surprised at her use of his first name. _Guess she didn't want to explain why she only ever uses your last name to your mother. Hell, she's never explained it to you, really._

"Yes. I'm retired, now, but I was for quite a long time. I took some time off to raise Michael — William and I were planning to have more, and we felt it was best. Obviously, when he passed I needed to go back to work, and I realized I'd forgotten how much I loved it. There are bad days, of course, but there are also so many good ones. When I went to retire, I found I couldn't give it up. So I started doing volunteer work. I'm still at the hospital three or four times a week, usually." His mother spears a piece of eggplant with her fork. "You're finishing a doctorate in literature, is that right?"

"Yes. In December, hopefully. I'm also going to be teaching two classes. I don't know if Michael told you — I've left the Agency."

"No. I'm afraid I've dominated most of our conversations lately with my trip," his mother says. "Your mother was a literature professor, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was."

"Following after both parents. How interesting. If you don't mind my asking, what made you decide to work on a doctorate when you already had a career with the CIA?"

"I, ah, was involved in an assignment that wasn't very pleasant," Sydney says. "I decided that I wanted to try to move on to something else. And doing what my mother did was always a dream of mine. I was kind of naive when I was recruited — I didn't realize what all it was going to entail. My schoolwork gave me something to look forward to, when it was all over."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay, now. It was a difficult time in my life, but Vaughn was actually very helpful in getting me through it."

She reaches for his hand, under the table.

"That sounds like my son. Very much like his father, in that way. If he could see you now, dating Jack Bristow's daughter." She smiles, gently. "Isn't it strange when the past intersects the present?"

Sydney's hand tightens around his. It is almost not enough.

———

The rest of dinner is easier. Sydney steers the conversation to his mother's trip, their own plans for Rome, and although there's mention of the old house, soon they're through dessert with no more talk about his father.

His mother returns from the kitchen, all of the dishes stacked in the sink for later, despite Sydney's offer to help.

"Would the two of you like to stay for coffee, or tea? Perhaps we could go into the living room, chat for awhile?"

Sydney does not speak, looks at him, instead. His decision.

"We probably should get going," he says, although this isn't really true — their flight is late enough tomorrow that they could stay much longer. But he has to get out of this house, has to get away, because it's only a matter of time before _he_ comes up again. "Sydney's not done packing yet, and I haven't even started."

"Oh." His mother speaks softly, her face blank — disappointed, trying to hide it. "Well, I'm so glad I was able to finally meet you, Sydney. We should do this again, sometime, when the two of you aren't so busy."

"Yes," Sydney smiles. "Definitely."

"Let me show you out."

They all stand, his mother leading them through the living room, a long walk back past the pictures and the flag.

She hugs both of them in the foyer — Sydney first, then him. "Have a wonderful time on your trip. Be safe."

"We will," he says, pushing the door open, the night air cold on his face. "Bye, Mom."

"Goodbye, Susan," Sydney says. She takes his hand, silent through the walk to the car.

She speaks finally when he backs out into the street, dark and empty. "Well, that was awkward."

"I'm sorry you had to put up with that, Syd. I don't think it will be as bad, next time — not as many questions about your past."

"That wasn't too bad," she says. "It could have been a lot worse. I meant all the things she said about your father. Is it always like that?"

"Most of the time."

"I'm so sorry you have to go through that."

He stares at the road in front of him, afraid if he looks at her now he will break down. _You just lied to your mother. You've been lying to her for months, really._ "I keep thinking if I wait long enough, it will get better."

"Lies usually don't, Vaughn."


	21. 3x3: The best defense

Chapter 3.3 — The best defense

Thursday, June 19, 2003

He wakes to a sore neck, bright airplane cabin, sun streaming through the windows — most of the shutters up. Sydney sitting beside him, halfway through a dog-eared paperback copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_.

"Morning," she says.

"What time is it?" He turns his wrist to reveal the face of his watch — 8 a.m. Los Angeles time, 5 p.m. in Rome. They'll be landing soon. "I can't believe I slept that long."

"Me either. Do you have any idea how hard it is to read Dickens while you're sitting there sleeping?"

"Did you sleep?"

"A little bit." She picks up a highlighter from the tray table in front of her, yellows out a passage.

"You've got plenty of time before classes, start, Syd." Especially if she always reads this impossibly fast — she'd been working her way through a Jane Austen when he fell asleep. "You could take a break and sleep."

"I got enough sleep, and I'll take a break when we get there. I just want to make sure I get through everything early. I want to put together good lectures."

She snaps the cap back on the highlighter, her face determined but concerned.

"You okay, Syd?"

"I'm just a little nervous about teaching for the first time." She looks down at the book. "It's been such a distant goal of mine for such a long time, and now I'm almost there, and I realized, I don't have any idea if I'm going to be any good at this. What if I'm not a good teacher? What do I do then?"

Her concern about teaching amuses him, has since the first time she revealed it. But then she doesn't see herself the way he sees her, absolutely capable.

"Syd, I honestly haven't seen a whole lot of anything that you're not good at. How would teaching be any different? You've come this far without anything remotely close to normal focus on your studies, so obviously you know the material." He lowers his voice, leans in close to her ear. "And there's a reason why there are so many more college professors in the world than operatives who've earned an intelligence star."

She reaches over, clasps his hand in his lap. "Thank you."

"You'll do fine, Syd. Probably much better than fine."

———

"Vaughn, really, I think it's over here."

"Are you sure?"

It is nearly 7 p.m. — Rome time — and they are searching for the correct carousel in a crowded baggage claim at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, walking against what little traffic flow there is. They'd gone through customs easily enough — his credentials hadn't hurt — and he was sure they'd get to the hotel by eight, have plenty of time to find a cafe nearby for dinner.

Instead, he is following her as she attempts to navigate overstacked luggage carts and families standing around giant clusters of suitcases. He pulls his own carry-on close behind him, narrowly avoids catching it on a stroller wheel, and wonders why the hell they decided to check luggage.

"I think the attendant said four, on the plane."

"You think?" _You could have stretched a carry-on two weeks. Regardless of what she says._

"I never check luggage. I don't pay attention to all that stuff at the end of the flight." She stops, and he nearly runs into her. "That's it. There's a sign for United."

She cuts through the crowd, heading for the metal conveyor belt, marked "Carosello Quattro/Carousel Four," and he has to reach out, grab one of the straps hanging from her backpack, use it to keep them together.

The crowd around the conveyor belt is already thick, two deep in many places, and they stand back, waiting, little carry-on suitcases parked close. A thin, mid-forties man — on vacation with his family, from the looks of it — struggles with a suitcase larger than either of his kids, finally yanking it off of the conveyor belt and nearly hitting Sydney. Her reflexes are fast, though, and she jumps to the side, grasps the edge of the suitcase and helps him steady it.

"Sorry about that," the man says, shrugging. "You gotta act fast. What are you folks looking for?"

"Two suitcases, about mid-size." Sydney gestures out an approximate shape and size with her hand. "Black."

Like every other suitcase on this damn conveyor belt.

"No markers?" The man asks. He points to a wide swath of orange paint across the front of the mammoth suitcase. "See, you gotta mark 'em. Makes it so much easier."

"We'll have to keep that in mind for next time." Sydney efforts a friendly smile.

Next time? Please don't tell me we're going to have to do this again.

He watches the younger of the man's two girls, walking a circle in the scant space she has beside her mother, trailing a tiny pink vinyl suitcase behind her, almost misses Sydney's cry:

"There! That's mine." She points to one approaching quickly on the conveyor belt.

He steps forward, helps her drag it off. "Well, at least you got yours. I bet mine ended up in Tucson or something."

"You're the one who said you only needed a carry-on."

The crowd is thinning, slightly, couples and families struggling to roll off with suitcases strapped on top of suitcases. The man and his wife eventually pull the last of their luggage, collect their children and wave goodbye.

"Have a good trip, you all!" he calls out behind him.

"You too," Sydney says, and he echoes her weakly. Checks his watch. 7:35, already.

His suitcase nearing, finally, one of the last on the belt. She helps him ease it to the ground, then turns to her own suitcases. He follows her back out of the baggage claim area. Two suitcases behind him, now, even harder to navigate the crowd — new flights, new throngs coming in — and no way to grab on to her backpack strap.

Great. You've been here just over an hour and you're going to lose her already.

Out into a less-populated corridor. She cuts to her left, heading for an entranceway below a small sign — "Autonoleggi/Rent a car."

"The rental car place is upstairs," she says. "I've rented out of here a few times."

"You know, it's easy to forget you've probably got more frequent flyer miles than everyone in this airport when you're being shown up at the baggage claim by some guy from Minnesota on vacation with his family."

She laughs. "Kate Jones actually has all the frequent flyer miles. And I didn't exactly see you painting up our suitcases before we left, Vaughn."

"I don't check luggage, either. In fact, I was thinking maybe we could FedEx everything back so we don't have to go through that at LAX."

"Sounds good to me."

They walk through the corridor, and he notes another armed guard — they've been present throughout the airport — standing stern against the wall. The guard doesn't acknowledge them as they pass, on the way to the up escalator at the end of the corridor. It takes some maneuvering to get all of their suitcases on and balanced, but they manage.

"You know what else we need, besides the paint?" he asks. "Those little strap things everybody uses to tie their suitcases together."

"I think they come with the suitcases," she says. They reach the second floor, and have to scramble around a turn, repeat the process on the escalator to the third. "I think I threw mine out, though."

"Yeah. Maybe I did, too. You hungry?"

"Starving."

"I was thinking maybe we could just try to find a cafe around the hotel for tonight. We've got plenty of time to hit the better places."

"That sounds good."

Around to the next escalator. They take that to the fourth — and mercifully final, he learns — floor. The crowd here is sparse, and she leads them easily through a round, clear walkway to the parking garage.

"Hertz, right?" She points to one of the signs overhead.

"Yeah."

There is only one woman at rental desk — arguing loudly, something about gasoline stations and her flight is soon — but two attendants, so he walks right up. It takes the man behind the counter a few moments to notice him, too busy watching the woman argue with his coworker, but he hands over the paperwork quickly enough, asks what they'd like.

"Something compact, please. Preferably with a little pep." He has driven these streets enough to know.

Vaughn scribbles through the paperwork, gives it to the clerk along with his credit card. The woman beside him waves her hands in the air and threatens to write a letter, stomps out of the office.

It takes a little while for the man to come back with his card and a set of keys. He apologizes for the woman, reminds them to bring the car back with a full tank of gas.

"We know. Grazie."

Out of the rental car office, into the parking garage, suitcase wheels jittering loud across the concrete floor, searching for Level 4, Lot B, Space 92. And it is now, finally, that he feels the heady rush of anticipation building in him.

They are here. They can begin.

They will go to the top of Janiculum Hill, look down on the sprawling cream-and-tan city, the domes and the ruins. And Traettoria di Nardi, of course — that is an old promise he fully intends to keep. He should take her to Trastevere, walk the cobblestones and find that little bar, cozy up for an evening with a good bottle of Tuscan wine. And to Teichner, for espresso, and Campo dei Fiori, for the market, and they will walk the piazzas and forget —

"This is 92," she announces, coming to a halt and pushing her suitcases upright.

Their car is a compact beige Mercedes C-class that ought to be sufficient. He hits the remote keyless, rewarded with the click of the lock in the hatchback. Pops it open and begins to load their suitcases.

There's not enough room for all four in the back, but he manages to shimmy one into the tiny backseat. Around to the driver-side door, Sydney already seated on the passenger side, her backpack on the floor between her feet. He slides out of his own backpack, lays it on top of the suitcase in the back. Climbs in and adjusts the seat, slides the key into the ignition.

Is that bookstore near the Embassy still open? She would love that place —

"Vaughn." Her voice low, urgent, hand locked around his wrist.

He follows her gaze, across the garage. Sees, can't possibly be seeing, but he is —

Sark and the double. Walking fast, black leather jackets and shoulder bags, only, for the two of them.

Approaching their spot, their car, and he tenses. They are here for her, they must be. Somehow they knew — it wasn't hard to find out. Their names were on the passenger manifest for the plane, the reservation for the hotel._ It wasn't hard to find you at all and now you're here without backup, without that security system and those agents busting down the door in under 10 minutes._

Close, too close. His gun is in the backpack; he reaches back, locks his hand around one strap, pulls it into the front, rips open the zipper with a loud _ screeee_. Sydney angles the rearview mirror to watch them come behind the car —

There! His hand on the cold metal of the H&K, pulling it out, sliding the clip in. He's armed now, they won't take her, won't hurt her.

— and pass, still walking on the other side.

He releases the breath he'd been holding, hears her do the same beside him, a thin, shaky whoosh. Sark and the double walk down the aisle, apparently oblivious to their presence.

They're not here for her. Or they are, and they're heading for your hotel.

"This is impossible," he says, watching them open the doors to a dark red Mercedes convertible parked somewhere in the low 100s and climb inside, Sark on the driver's side. They leave the top up. "They're supposed to be in Finland."

"Apparently nobody told them that."

Decision time. You have to go after them. This is the closest anyone's been to them in months. But not with her. Not when it might be her they want.

"Syd, I'm going to back the car up to the door. Go inside, find one of the guards. Explain your situation — they should be able to help you get to the American Embassy. It's on Via Vittorio Veneto — "

"What?"

"I'm going to try to follow them. I want you to go the American Embassy."

Sound of the convertible starting, faint.

"Are you insane? You're going to dump me and go after them with no backup?"

"I'll call for backup. Look, Syd, I don't think it's a coincidence that you're in Rome and they just happened to show up here. You should be safe at the Embassy. It's under Marine guard, and they've got people from the Agency working out of there."

"Vaughn, there is no way in hell I'm letting you follow them by yourself. No way."

"Syd, you're not an agent anymore. You're a civilian and I don't think — "

"Don't give me that, Vaughn. It's been three months. I still know how this works."

The Mercedes backing up.

"You're not armed."

"All the better reason to stay with you." She motions to the gun, still clasped tight in his left hand, resting on his thigh.

"You'd only be — "

"Look, Vaughn, I know you want to keep me safe, but if they're going to get me, I'd rather it be chasing after them, not running away. What's that saying? The best defense is a good offense?" She lays her hand on his shoulder. "Vaughn, I don't want you to get hurt because you tried to do this solo."

And I don't want you to get killed because you tried to help.

The Mercedes straightening, starting down the ramp to the next floor.

You're running out of time.

He hands her the gun. Starts the car, shifts into reverse.

Maybe she is right.Maybe it's her decision, anyway._ Even though it will kill you if she's wrong._

"Okay."

His feet on the clutch and the gas, backing the car out, body suddenly tight with tension.

She pulls his backpack from his lap, roots through until she finds his cell phone and sunglasses, handing him the sunglasses as he straightens the car, shifts into first.

"Here. It's not much of a disguise, but it's better than nothing."

He puts them on, despite the dim light of the garage. It is harder to see as he rolls around the first turn, down another ramp.

Sydney slips on her own sunglasses, sits with his cell phone in her left hand, the gun in her right. Another turn.

"Oh six, two two four, five nine six eight." The emergency contact number for Station Rome, one he's never actually used, but memorized long ago.

Sydney glances down at the display, holds up the phone. "You don't have service."

"That's impossible."

"No bars, Vaughn. Maybe it's the garage. I'll try again when we get outside."

"Okay." He swings around another turn. Daylight up ahead, and the convertible, two cars in front of them, waiting at the parking gate. This is helpful; they can use those cars as padding.

The gate lifts, and the convertible turns right. The next car, a scarily subcompact little orange thing, goes through quickly and turns left, but the green Citroen in front of them is slow, painfully slow. _Come on, damn it, come on. We could lose them right here. Move it, move it, move it._

The Citroen finally through, turning right as well. He pulls forward, pushes the card from Hertz into the cashier's hand. Pulls forward as soon as the gate begins to lift and barely hears the cashier call out good day through his closing window.

Right turn, out into the sun, low on the horizon, nearly blinding, even with the sunglasses — his eyes have adjusted to the dark garage. The convertible in front of the Citroen, farther down an access road. He keeps well back — it is easy to see them, here. No need to risk getting close and being spotted.

The convertible turns left onto another access road, and when he reaches the same intersection, he notes the sign there, "Autostrada - Roma."

"I think they're heading into the city." Which is good — they'll be able to hang back and blend with the other cars on the highway. The trick will be catching what exit they take, staying unnoticed on the surface streets.

He makes the same left and looks over at Sydney, trying again with his cell phone.

"Still no service, Vaughn."

"That thing is supposed to have service across most of the world. How can I not have service just outside of Rome?"

"I don't know, but you don't. You want me to try mine?"

"Yours isn't secure."

"It's better than nothing. We're not going to be able to tail them indefinitely without backup, Vaughn."

They could be listening. If they are, you're screwed anyway. "Try it."

The entrance ramp for the autostrada up ahead, the convertible and the Citroen both turning, taking the ramp. Sydney reaches into her backpack, pulls out her own phone.

"Damn it. I don't have service, either."

"What the hell is going on?"

The convertible right up to speed, cutting across traffic, over into the fast lane. He'll need to accelerate more, or they may lose it.

"I've never brought a normal cell phone over here, Vaughn. They're on a different network in Europe, aren't they? It's possible my phone just can't recognize the network."

"But mine is supposed to work on all networks."

Approaching the entrance ramp, now, shifting into third, fourth.

"Maybe there's something wrong with your phone."

Fifth gear, pressing hard on the gas, up to 75 by the time they need to merge. Cutting over more cautiously — anything aggressive and they might stand out — one lane, then another, finally over into the fast lane, settling in behind a black Jaguar. Five cars between them and the convertible, but he can still see it. They are set, for now.

"Maybe they're jamming the signal."

"They don't seem to know we're here. Why would they be jamming cell phone signals?"

"Maybe they're not jamming them for us." He checks his own rearview mirror, finds nothing suspicious, but the highway is busy. _Someone could be back there, tailing them, or you, and you'd never know it._ "Or maybe this is a trap."

"It doesn't seem like a very good trap, if that's what it is."

"So you think the same people who wanted to kill you a few months ago just happened to fly into Rome and rent a car from the same rental agency as us, at the same time?"

"It's possible, Vaughn. I think it's more absurd that they would come up with some plan that would involve us seeing them, and tailing them, rather than just jump us in the garage."

"But what are they doing here in Rome, then? We had a plan set up, Syd, to lure them out in Helsinki."

"Looks like they didn't bite," she says. "I guess we'll find out soon enough."

He drives with both hands tight on the wheel, waiting for the cars in front of him to change lanes. He will need to move over if the traffic gets too thin, hide here in the pack, and still find a way to stay with them.

They'd covered the basics of this in CST — several days spent following a chase car through the rural roads of Virginia, interstate highways, D.C. streets — but always with multiple cars. Alternating who was the direct tail, sometimes sending a car out ahead, coordinating catch-ups, covering possible intersections — massive operations coordinated over secure radio.

You could follow someone indefinitely like that, if you did it right, because a different car was always appearing in their rearview mirror. But the rule had always been that a solo tail would fail, eventually and often spectacularly if you were following anyone with decent skills, ending when the target slipped away or caught the tail.

They always said this was impossible. Maybe we can prove them wrong.

The Jag puts on a right turn signal, waits for an opening in the lane beside them, pulls over. Vaughn decides to stay — there are still four cars between him and the convertible, and there's no reason for them to stand out on the crowded highway in the little beige car.

"Anything on the phones?"

Sydney picks up his cell phone and then her own. "No bars, and no bars."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Vaughn — "

"I see it."

Two cars in front of them with their turn signals on — they are nearing the GRA, the autostrada that runs a giant ring around the city, and much of the highway seems to be moving over, preparing for the exit. They will have to move over now.

He flips on his turn signal, finds a small gap in the cars beside him and slides into it. Better to move now, before the other cars. _If they happen to look in their rearview mirror, and they happen to recognize you, it's over._

Unless they already know you're back here.

This lane is much more crowded, moving slightly slower. Five, ten miles per hour less, maybe, but it is enough that they'll lose the convertible if it stays in the fast lane and they can't move back over.

Get over, damn it. Yes, there you go. The convertible cuts over, no turn signal. One lane and then two.

The exit sign up ahead — "Gran Raccordo Anulare - 1KM" — and he moves over, as well, one lane, only. The far-right lane is exit-only, and it's possible they're not going to exit just yet.

Another car cuts in front of him before the exit, approaching rapidly, nearly clips him, and he has to bump the brakes, hard, losing his focus on the convertible.

"Damn it."

"Watch the road," she says. "I've got them."

He does, the traffic tight around him, too many cars trying to move over too late.

"They're moving over. Get off." She speaks firmly, and he'd forgotten that voice, forgot what she sounded like, working an operation.

He puts on his turn signal, hopes someone will let him over, something will open up. There is a space maybe larger than his car behind the car beside him, and he brakes, hopes the woman behind him won't lay on her horn — she doesn't — and cuts over. No horn from the car in the exit lane, either.

The convertible must be well ahead of them, now, but they can catch up on the GRA, as long as Sark and the double don't exit too quickly. Onto the exit ramp, shifting down to third around the cloverleaf, the Mercedes hugging the turn good and hard, back up to fifth and onto the GRA — 75, 80, 85, over, over, over, into the fast lane.

But where the hell are they?

"You see them, Syd?"

"I'm looking." She looks first out the front window, then the passenger side, finally in her rear-view mirror. "Second lane, a little ways back."

"Damn it. They're going to exit soon."

"We're okay. Just move back over."

The GRA is crowded, but nothing like the mess they just faced. He pulls straight over, still in front of the convertible, all the way to the first lane, hoping it will be slow enough to let the convertible catch up. The sign for the first exit flashes by, but the convertible stays in the second lane, and if this works, he thinks, it will be good to spend some time in front of the other car.

One of the first things the instructor mentioned, in CST surveillance, he remembers. Nobody suspects the person or the car in front of them — they're always looking behind. The problem here is that Sark and the double will pass them, eventually, both cars beside each other for a brief time.

"Get down, Syd."

"What?"

The convertible five, maybe six cars back, now, coming up fast.

"They're going to pass us. Even if they've got no clue we're here, you're still pretty recognizable. And give me my cell phone."

Four cars back. Sydney leans over, tucking her head below the glove compartment, reaches up blindly, his cell phone in her hand. He takes it from her with his left hand, transfers it to his right, holds it to his ear, trying to cover as much of the side of his face as he can.

Two cars, and then one. He watches the convertible pass out of the corner of his eye, doesn't dare look over. Tries to stay as close to the car in front of him as he can. If they pull directly in front of him in traffic this tight, it is only a matter of time before they look back and notice him.

The convertible doesn't pull in front of him, but it moves over two cars down.

"They're past," he says. "They've moved over, but they're not too far ahead. Stay down — I think they're going to exit."

As he's predicted, the convertible pulls off on the next exit. Neither of the cars between them exits, however, and when Vaughn pulls off of the highway, he brakes hard at the top of the ramp, hanging back, watching the convertible turn right, heading into the city.

"They turned right. You can get up."

He speeds, now, up to the intersection — no cars coming — and through the turn. Sydney rises beside him, her face red, ponytail messy, stray hairs wisping around her face. She runs a hand over the top of her head, attempts to smooth her hair.

He can see the convertible up ahead, still no cars between them, and he hangs back, an invitation for the Ford waiting to turn out of a side street.

The Ford makes the turn, and Vaughn accelerates. _You can't do this forever. There isn't always going to be a car to go between you._

He glances down at his cell phone, still in his hand. No signal. He gives it back to her.

The city begins to thicken, apartment buildings and row houses four and five stories high, crowding the narrowing street, bricks painted rust and tan and mustard yellow but starting to fade.

They drive up, over a hill, and there's a traffic circle ahead, which could hurt. If they suspect a tail, they may drive around a few times, force Vaughn to pull off and run the risk of losing them.

The road changes to cobblestone as they approach the circle, bumpy and loud. Past a trio of yellow-and-green gasoline pumps on the sidewalk, a barbershop and a small drugstore, and into the circle. There are pedestrians, here, milling around the small fountain in the center of the circle, forcing the traffic to slow, stop as they dart across the road.

A little red subcompact in front of the convertible halts for a woman with a stroller, starts moving again. Twenty feet and then the convertible turns off on one of the spokes, accelerating down what looks like another residential street. No other cars turn off on that street.

He follows, fears they'll be spotted here — they are so obvious, they must be — but the convertible turns left on a side street.

They'll see you if you turn. You'll lose them if you don't.

He slows and then stops before he makes the turn, although there's no traffic coming in the other direction, looks down the narrow street. The convertible parking, Sark and the double getting out. _Don't look this way, don't look this way. _Waiting, waiting, watching them walk across the street, up to a doorway. _Bingo. Destination._

He accelerates, first, second, third, to the next street, turning left, pulling in between an old Fiat and a pair of motorbikes. Shifts into neutral, puts the parking brake up, looking over at her.

"You don't have to do this, Syd. You could take the car, go to the Embassy — "

"I'm going, Vaughn." Her voice strong, firm. They do not have time to argue, and he knows he would not win, even if they did.

Why did you bring her here? Why the fuck did you take her out of Los Angeles?

"How are we going to do this?"

"It looks like there's an alley up the street. We can cut across there." She checks the safety on the gun, hands it to him, butt first. "You should take it. I haven't shot in three months. Maybe four, by now."

There are other, better reasons for him to take the gun. She's had more training, more experience in hand-to-hand fighting, and even now, months out of practice, she'll have more options than he would unarmed.

He grasps the gun tight, looks over at her. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

They throw open their doors simultaneously, and he feels the adrenaline swirling through him. The gun low, close to his body as they start to move. They are both wearing tennis shoes and jeans — not ideal for this, but still better than her old dresses and heels.

The sun just beginning to set, slight tinges of pink and yellow above the houses. He wishes they had time to wait until dark. Wishes they had backup. Wishes she was locked in an interior room at the embassy, two or four or six armed Marines around her.

They sprint across the street together, then slow, slightly, staying close to the buildings — apartments, mostly, from the look of them. Nikes clapping across the cobblestones, into the alley, narrow and sided by concrete blocks nearly black with years of grime. She stays close, nearly hugs his back as he approaches the corner of the alley.

He waits, listens, then swings out into a street much like the one he lived on here. Past the little pizzeria, white tablecloths over folding wooden tables and chairs, clustered along the edge of the street. Beneath the ornate iron balconies, dripping rust onto the apartments they side, covered with concrete flowerpots and plants in varying stages of life, so familiar they almost feel like a memory.

They are lucky — no one is outside. He still holds the gun closer as they approach the tall, narrow row house Sark and the double entered. The arched doorway is right on the street, the door likely the same age as the building, which he puts at a century, minimum, the old wood painted glossy red.

He puts a tentative hand on the brass knob, turns slowly. The door is not locked, which means the metal rods can stay in his wallet, he won't have to stand out here in the street trying to pick the old lock. He looks back at her, mouths "on three."

She holds up one finger, then two. He turns around when it's time for three, throws the door open. Gun out in front of him, two-handed grip, steady, panning fast across the tiled hallway straight in front of him, the stairs further down the hall, the parlor to his right.

All are empty. He steps inside, feels her close, warm behind him. Another step, and a faint click as she closes the door.

Upstairs, or down? He waits for a noise that would give them away.

Silence, at first —

Did they miss them? How could they possibly miss them? The convertible is still outside, how could they have got away?

— and then the sound of footsteps, faint voices, from upstairs.

Toward the stairs, tiptoeing through the hall. He lays his foot down on the first wooden stair, rolling from heel to toe, painstakingly slow, fearing it will creak and give them away. He puts all of the weight on his front foot, gingerly swinging his back foot forward, placing it on the next step. They move carefully up the steep, narrow stairway like this, Sydney behind him, her hands in tight fists, held close to her body.

He watches each tennis shoe as it rolls down on the wood, but also the top of the stairway ahead, counting the number of steps until they reach the top. Six. Five. Four. He can see the second floor, just barely, and he glances around, gun up, ready to run up the stairs if he sees them here. He doesn't. Three. Two.

One. Up into another hallway, carpeted, fortunately — they can dash to each of the four doors, two on each side. He opens the first door, gun ready, and finds a study of some sort, walls filled with bookshelves and a brown leather chair in the middle, empty.

On to the next room, filled with a nightstand and a solitary twin bed, made up tight, also empty. Across the hall to the largest room yet, master suite, a double bed and more furniture here. The bedsheets messy, slept in recently, but there is no one here. Back out into the hallway, and he can hear their voices again, louder than before, but still not on this floor.

He opens the fourth door just in case, finds only a tiny bathroom. They move back to the stairwell, and another flight of old wooden stairs. Careful, again. Sark and the double must be close, and any sound would give away their advantage, surprise.

If this is a surprise. If you're not walking into an ambush.

Six. Five. His heart pounding, this is the moment that could kill them if he gets it wrong.

Four, and he can see them, across a vast room that takes up most of the third floor, leaning over a hole in the wall, likely a safe inside. He glances around, gathers the periphery — the large painting on the floor beside them, the desks along one wall covered with computer equipment, the set of three large armoires along the other wall. Keeps his gun trained on them as he creeps up three, two, one, Sydney right behind him.

"I've got it," Sark announces.

Got what?

Don't turn around. Don't turn around. He takes one step forward, onto a wooden floor that's been covered with a thick layer of tan paint.Deep breath.

"Freeze!"

Rushing forward, now, surprise is gone, and they are spinning, Sark and the double. Something flying at him — gold, shiny, a brick from the safe, maybe, yes — and he ducks, dives, manages to keep hold of his gun. Tries to come up firing, but Sark is already there, kicking hard at his hands, sending the gun skittering across the floor.

Sark standing over him, prone there on the floor. _Does he have a gun?_ Sark slips a hand inside his jacket —

Yes he's got a gun and he's going for it now and fuck, fuck, fuck, you have got to do something. Kick, you kick now, you take him down.

Vaughn pushes off of his hands, stretches out his left leg, sweeping his foot under Sark's legs.

Sark hits the floor hard, but comes out with the gun anyway. Vaughn kicks up with the other foot, catches Sark in the wrist. A single shot, into the ceiling, and the gun flying off to the side of the room.

Get up. Get up, you get the advantage.

He tries to stand before Sark can recover, but the other man is up nearly as fast. Vaughn moves first, a left uppercut that catches Sark as he's still rising, hard against his ribs. Knuckles stinging, Vaughn pulls back, tries to dodge Sark's quick jab in return and mostly fails, pain radiating through his jaw.

He is vaguely aware of Sydney fighting the double beside him, crying out: "You killed her, didn't you, you bitch!" Of his gun, buried somewhere in the tangle of wires below one of the computer desks, and Sark's, which must have landed somewhere over there. If he could just get to the desks —

Sark swings again and he's ready this time, right arm up to block and left hand swinging, connecting just where he'd aimed — the throat, hard to recover from — and Sark staggers backward a step, gasping. He recovers, though, and comes back with a wild punch, which Vaughn blocks, and a knee to the stomach, which he doesn't, and suddenly it hurts to breathe.

You cannot lose this. Go, damn it, go.

He comes at Sark again. Dodge, blow, dodge, duck, punch, and the smack of someone hitting the floor hard, knockout hard. _Sydney? God, if it's her you're sunk. You're going to have to get to the gun. It's your only chance. _ He glances over, rewarded with another blow to the chin for his inattention to Sark, but it's the double, not Sydney on the floor, and they will do this. She will come over here and help him and they will do this. He swings again.

A sharp, stinging pain in his calf. _What the —_

He looks down, and it takes him awhile to locate the source of the pain. A tiny little red-and-white feather-tipped tranquilizer dart.

Oh god, this was a setup. They shot you and now they're going to take her, kill her.

Growing dizzy, now. Sark punches him again in the gut, but he hardly feels it in the numbness swirling through his body. Sydney approaching, and it's hard to stand, too hard, and everything is blurry, and he is swaying, his knees buckling.

He collapses on the floor, feels Sark fall next to him. He tells himself to get up, take the dart out, but he can't move, can barely think.

Stay awake. You have to stay awake. Stay awake for her.

You failed. You failed her. You let her do this and it was a setup and you should have known and they're going to take her now and they can't take her, I love her.

Please no don't take her, don't —


	22. 3x4: The story

Chapter 3.4 — The story

Thursday, June 19, 2003, 8:47 p.m.

"Vaughn, Vaughn. Wake up."

Darkness, then bright blurry shapes, as he forces his eyes open. Sydney is leaning over him, gently shaking his chin.

He watches her face slip in and out of focus. _She's okay, she's okay. But how?_

"Come on, Vaughn. You have to get up. I don't know who was shooting at us, but — "

The doors to the middle armoire open with a loud creak, and he turns his head, watches as a short, striking old man, clearly Italian, emerges. His hair nearly white, thinning only slightly, and long, eyes clear and brown, first step out of the armoire stiff and cautious.

Sydney swings her arm up, points a gun at the old man. It must have been the double's, unless she crossed the room and found his or Sark's. "Who the hell are you?"

"I am the man whose home these people invaded." The old man stands to his full height — 5'5, maybe 5'6. He wears black pants and a gray button-down sweater, and reminds Vaughn of Mr. Rogers from the children's television show because of them, although his height and features are all wrong.

"Please put the gun down. I don't need any more of that in my house this evening. I don't mean you any harm. I didn't mean to hit him, either — " pointing at Vaughn " — but it is tough to pick a target when you're all fighting like that. Especially in here."

Sydney lowers the gun, slightly, and the old man turns around, closes the doors to the armoire. The woodworking on the front is intricate, so full of curves and columns it is difficult to see two tiny holes between the doors, unless you're really looking. _One for a tranq gun, one for a sight. But why?_

The old man reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out four of the plastic ties used by some of American law enforcement as a backup for handcuffs. "I'm going to put these on those two, if that's okay?"

Who the hell is this guy?

Sydney nods, and the old man walks toward the double, lying there on her back, one knee bent, arms out to the sides, classic chalk outline form. He attempts to roll her so he can get both of her hands behind her back, but lifts her barely a foot off the ground before it becomes clear he is struggling, and Sydney sighs, stands and steps over Sark to help him with one hand, the other still on the gun.

The old man pulls a tie tight around the double's hands, and Sydney releases her grip on the woman's shoulder, lets the body fall back to the floor on top of her arms and hands.

"Not that these matter much," the old man says, holding up his bundle of ties as he moves to the double's feet. "They'll be out for the better part of a day. My own special recipe. You're lucky Sydney pulled yours out before the tranquilizer could take full effect."

"How did you know my name?" Sydney swings the gun back up, points it at the man's head.

Vaughn slips his hand back across the floor, the paint thick, plastic, his senses dull, not quite right. He attempts to push off on a weak arm, prop himself up; he must be ready to fight if she needs backup, but he is still groggy, a little dizzy.

"My dear, I know much more about you than your name." The old man pulls the tie tight around the double's feet, looks up at the gun. He puts his hands in the air slowly, palms flat, facing her. "Now, Sydney, Sydney. Have I done anything here to make you think that I'm not on your side?" He motions to Sark and the double, prone and motionless on the floor.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Why don't you put that gun down, and I'll tell you." The old man's eyes are wild, panicked, but his voice is calm. "I'm not armed, now. My gun is back in the armoire. If I intended to hurt you, surely I would have brought it with me, yes?"

Sydney lowers the gun until it hits the floor with a metal thunk, her grip still tight on the base. There is a long pause before the old man speaks.

"For all of this century, and much of the last, I have been Giovanni Moretti, retired financier. But I believe you know me by my original name — Milo Rambaldi."

Vaughn rolls his head slightly to look at Sydney. Stares at her eyes, shocked and disbelieving. They must echo his.

This cannot be happening. That cannot be possible.

"The rest I will tell you downstairs. This is hardly the proper place to talk." The old man stands, walks over to Sark. "Help me with him so we can get out of here. And I believe there are some more guns over by the electronics."

Sydney takes a circuitous path, around the bodies, around the old man, over to the computer desks. She bends over to pick up Vaughn's gun, ejects the clip and pockets it, then stands, looking over the mess on top of the desks. She pulls the other gun from behind a monitor, ejects that clip as well, and lifts her t-shirt just enough to tuck both guns into the waistband of her jeans.

"I already checked them for more," she says. "This is it."

The old man — Vaughn can't think of him as Rambaldi, not without proof, not without substantial, overwhelming proof, and maybe not even then — has long since finished with Sark's feet, and he waits near his torso for Sydney to cross the room and kneel between Sark and Vaughn, push at Sark's shoulder until there's room to reach his wrists. Then the old man stands, backs up a few feet, and Sydney tucks in the last gun at her back, turns toward Vaughn.

"You think you can walk?"

"I don't know." He pushes off of his hand again, brings himself all the way up to sitting. There is a moment when blackness creeps into the edges of his vision and his head feels hollow, wrong, but it passes, and he tucks one foot under his body, then another, starts to stand.

He is halfway upright when the blood starts swirling around his head and he thinks no, definitely not ready to stand, but she grabs his arm, stands underneath his shoulder, helps him all the way upright.

The old man watching. "There is an antidote, but since you didn't get a full dose of the tranquilizer, I'm afraid it might give you a heart attack."

"I think I'll pass, then."

"I thought so. Some caffeine will help. We will get you some espresso when we get downstairs." The old man motions toward the top of the stairs. "After you."

He leans heavily on her, and they stagger across the floor, then down, and the stairs do creak under his sluggish feet. Down to the second floor and then turning, the old man a few steps behind, around to the last flight. Starting to feel a little better, a little more awake — his system must be processing more of the drug — but not sure he wants to try to make it the rest of the way to the living room without assistance.

At the bottom of the stairs, now, across the hallway and into the parlor, the old man flicking a switch on the wall, filling it with light. The couch is on the far side of the room, set back against a velvet-curtained window. Sydney walks him there, turns with him, and bends her knees, letting him sink onto a red-and-cream tapestry couch. Antique, but clean, like the rest of the furniture in the room. Old and elaborate, fine fabric on bold mahogany.

The whole room feels antique, like it is left over from some other era. Dark beams stripe the ceiling, wide wood panels form a well-polished floor. It is sparsely decorated — a line of candles atop the mantel of a marble fireplace, a few gilt-edged paintings on the walls that do look distinctly Rambaldi.

That doesn't mean anything. This guy could just be some nut-job collector. He has to be. Unless he really did find the formula for eternal life —

"I'm going to go into the kitchen and get Mr. Vaughn some espresso. Would you like anything, Sydney?" The old man standing, hands clasped, in front of the arched entrance to what looks like a dining room. "Espresso? Or maybe you'd prefer tea? Or wine? It is late enough in the evening for you Americans to drink wine, now, I believe."

So he knows who you are, too. Really not that surprising, if he knows Sydney.

"Espresso would be fine."

"I will be back shortly. Then we will chat." The old man spins, disappears through the narrow archway.

Vaughn leans against the firm back of the couch, feels a bit like this is a party and he is the one who's had too much to drink.

"You okay?" Sydney turns toward him, lays a hand on his arm.

"Yeah. Just a little tired. I think it's wearing off."

"Do you think it's him?"

"I don't know, Syd. I mean, it sounds insane. It has to be. But then — he was working on some sort of formula for eternal life, right? What if it worked?"

"I thought that required my death."

"Maybe there really was an alternate way to do it. Sark and the double had to be after something here."

The faint sound of steam hissing from somewhere deep in the house. The old man will be back, soon.

"Whoever he is, he knows who we are." She shakes her head. "I don't like that at all, Vaughn."

He shifts, slips an arm around her back, low, his fingers colliding with the gun.

"You should take one." She reaches beneath her t-shirt, pulls out a boxy Glock 19, silencer capping the barrel, and hands it to him, followed by the clip, pulled from her back pocket, her hips arching off the couch to reach. "Just in case."

He checks the safety, slides the clip into the gun until he hears, feels the proper click, and reaches behind his back to tuck it into his jeans. The metal is still warm from her body.

Footsteps in the dining room, china rattling. The old man walks back through the archway, carrying a large silver tray, covered with three tiny white cups and saucers, a small pitcher, a bottle of Pellegrino, a pile of bread slices.

"This little bakery down the street makes the best ciabatta." the old man says, his voice high, accent thick. "You can taste the olive oil. Unfortunately, this is a day old — I had to stay home today, of course. It should still be good, just not as good as the first day."

The old man sets the tray down with a soft clank on the broad marble-topped coffee table in front of them, and in this room, it seems they should be a group of women sitting down to afternoon tea in 19th century London, not themselves.

There are two velour chairs in the corner of the room, arranged around a small, round table. The old man lifts one, carries it over to the coffee table opposite them. He points to the pitcher. "Creamer. I would have bought milk if I had known you were coming."

Vaughn skips the creamer and picks up the cup nearest him, a thin layer of caramel crema floating over the top. He considers chugging the whole cup — maybe it will help him focus — but instead takes a large sip. The espresso is strong, but the old man made it right — no grit, smooth and bold. Sydney pours just a tiny wisp of creamer into hers, lifts her cup and drinks hesitantly. The old man takes it black.

He reaches for the bread at the same time as Sydney; they haven't eaten since lunch on the plane. It would taste good even if he wasn't so hungry — crusty on the inside, chewy in the middle, not stale at all.

"You are hungry. Would you like anything else to eat? I could go get some cheese and fruit — "

"I'd like to know what the hell is going on," Sydney says.

"Yes, of course." The old man places his cup back in the saucer, sits up straight against the chair back. "It would help me to tell the story if I knew what brought the two of you here. Were you after the manuscript as well? I thought I had only leaked that to Christophe's camp."

"We're on vacation," Vaughn says. "We just happened to run across Sark and — the woman — at the airport."

"I see," the old man pauses. "What a remarkable coincidence, Sydney, that you should come to my home like this." He looks at Vaughn. "Not that I am not also pleased by your company. But she is important — "

"Important enough for you to prophecize electrocuting me in order to achieve eternal life?"

She doesn't honestly think this is him, does she? No, she can't possibly. But the longer she goes without answers the madder she's going to get.

"Ah," the old man says. "I was wondering when we would get to that. I promise you, Sydney, I will explain. But that is not the beginning of the story."

Vaughn lays his hand on her knee, squeezes hard. _Patience, Syd._

The old man reaches down, picks up his cup and takes a long, thin sip, deposits it back in the saucer with a muffled ceramic ding.

"There was a woman." He looks at Vaughn, his eyes almost conspiratorial, and smiles. "But then, there is always a woman, isn't there?"

Vaughn does not smile back.

The old man continues. "In my case, she was Isabetta Orsini, of the Orsini family — one of the most powerful in all of Rome. She was beautiful, so beautiful. But there were many beautiful women in Rome. No, with Isabel — that is what I called her, you see, Isabel — there was something more. Her personality, her intelligence, they set her apart. She was the loveliest woman I have ever encountered."

The old man looks beyond them, perhaps to the curtained window, the tiny sliver of twilight flowing into the room, streaking across the table in front of them.

"We met when I was still an apprentice. Her family had already given the church two popes, and would later provide a third, plus a number of bishops, so her father had frequent audience with Pius the Second. She would come with him to the Vatican, and I found her there one day, wandering the corridors.

"I asked her if she was lost. No, she said, merely bored. You must understand that I started my apprenticeship early in life — I was 15 when I met her, and I had never even kissed a girl, much less one so beautiful. But although I was nervous, I asked her if she should like to see my workshop. It wasn't mine, really, it was the old man Lorenzo's. It would become mine when he retired, or died — which is what he actually did several years later — and I would become chief architect. Chief architect for the pope! It seemed in those younger years that the day would never come. Of course, it did, and you know this. But I digress."

The old man stops, appears puzzled, as though he's lost his narrative somewhere in his mind and he's searching for it frantically. Vaughn seizes the lull, downs the rest of his espresso.

"Do you believe in fate?" The old man asks, abrupt. He does not wait for an answer. "I consider myself a scientist and most scientists, I believe, do not allow for fate in their facts and theories. But it must have been fate that brought us both down the corridor that day — must have been! I could not have hoped for a more amazing young woman, you see.

"We went to the workshop, and thankfully, Master Lorenzo was out. I showed her some of the plans I had been working on, my side projects — yes, even then I had side projects. I daresay I fell in love with her that day. It was rare that I had anyone — much less someone like Isabel — to share my work with. I must have blathered on like the young teenage — what is the word they use now? Nerd, that's it. Like the young teenage nerd that I was.

"But she did not seem bored. No, not at all. She had this — this bold curiosity to her. She left only when her father came calling, but before she did, I received my first kiss."

The old man smiles, broad and fond. He takes a sip of espresso, then continues. "I thought perhaps that might be the last I would see of her. How could I be so lucky as to warrant her return? And indeed, three days passed, and nothing. But on the fourth day, she came knocking on the door to the laboratory. Her father had not had business there for three days, she said, but he did today, and she had asked to come along, hoping to see me. I am sure you can imagine how my heart swelled to hear that!

"It was not long before she did not need an excuse to come and visit. She would tell her mother she was going to the Vatican to pray, and meet me there. Or we would meet elsewhere in Rome when the old man did not require me. It was quite a different city, then. I was quite a different man."

He sighs, slumps just a bit in his chair. "I suppose you can see where this story is headed. The beautiful rich girl and the young, penniless apprentice, sleeping on a straw mattress in the corner of the laboratory. It was not supposed to work out. She came to me one night in tears — her parents had arranged a marriage for her, as was custom, then, for such a family. The news was not a shock to me — I had known this day would come.

"I was prepared, you see. We'll run away, I told her, work on my inventions and sell them someday. I thought this would appeal to her — not just being with me, although I hoped that was a large part of it, but working, using her mind. She was a woman who should not have been born a woman in that time. She hesitated for a moment, and then she told me yes, she would run away with me. Oh, how my heart soared! It may well have been the most spectacular moment of my life.

"But we shouldn't be brash about it, she said. The wedding wasn't for months. Give her a month to prepare — in that time, she could steal a bit here, a bit there from her parents, her uncle, her new fiancé, even, and come up with enough money for us to get away, to live on for awhile. My beautiful, brilliant girl, I said, that's just what we'll do. There was an olive grove in the outskirts of the city where we used to picnic. We made plans to meet there in one month. We could go anywhere."

He clears his throat, picks up the cup and drains the last bit of espresso ringing the bottom of his cup.

"I suppose you see what happened. A month later, I waited and waited, and she never came. But perhaps she had been detained by her parents, her fiancé, I thought, and had been unable to make it that night. So I returned the next night, and the next. Still she did not come. I waited for her to come to the workshop, to leave a note — anything. When a week had passed, and I had not heard from her, I grew worried. I feared something terrible had happened to her."

There are tears in the old man's eyes. "I took a walk, down to her street. I saw her with him, that fiancé, and she was smiling, holding his hand. I did not know what to think. Perhaps she had decided she could not give up her life there. Perhaps she had fallen in love with this new man. But as you can imagine, my heartbreak was complete."

"I'm so sorry," Sydney says, her voice softer, affected by the love story. "But I don't understand what this has to do with me."

"My dear, that is not nearly the end of the story." The old man reaches for the Pellegrino and unscrews the cap. He pours to the brim of his cup, the water tinted brown from the coffee, and places the bottle back on the tray with a heavy clank. A small sip from the cup, and he begins again. "I did not ever talk to her again. I intended to, once. I'd had a bit too much to drink, I must admit, and I stumbled over to her house with every intention of confronting her. What did I have to lose?

"When I got there, I waited for awhile, hiding behind a carriage that had been parked across the street, working up the courage to go up and knock on the door. But I did not. The door opened after a few minutes and she came out with her fiancé — now her husband. But I saw then that she still possessed love for me. Oh, I saw the most beautiful thing! She was carrying in her arms a young infant child — a baby girl. And I wept there in the street as they got into the same carriage I was hiding behind and rode off. What a sacrifice she had made!"

The old man presses his hands together close to his face, his eyes bright, loving.

"I don't understand," Sydney says.

"The child was mine — I am certain of it. The dates, the age of the child, it had to be. But what sort of life would she have lived, with me? On the run with an infant? Isabel stayed to protect her baby — our baby. I suspect she did it to protect me, as well. If we had run and been caught, with her pregnant — I surely would have been hanged.

"Seeing her, seeing our child, brought peace to my heart. I knew then why she had never tried to contact me — the danger to both the child and myself would be too great. And I decided then that I would never again try to speak to her, or even to correspond. I returned to my work — it was one of two things I had left in my life. And I achieved many things. I am sure you know some of them. I came to have many followers, and just as many enemies. Ultimately, some of those enemies set into motion the events that led to my death, as it were."

He sips at his water, smiles. "Obviously, I am not dead. I told you that I also had many followers. That was their work."

"They faked your death?" Vaughn asks. He feels sharper, now — not quite normal, but his mind isn't nearly as sluggish, and he could probably get up and walk, if he needed to.

"Yes. I do not know how, precisely, and I am not sure I want to. Presumably someone died in my place — burned at the stake, as I was to be. I myself was spirited away the night before my scheduled execution. I went into hiding out in the country for many years, then when enough time had passed, I returned to Rome. I have been here, for the most part, since."

"That explains how you survived your execution," Sydney says. "But how are you still alive?"

"Oh, I am getting to that. You have to understand how I was in that time — so many ideas, so many plans. I felt that a lifetime was not nearly enough to complete them all. Then one night, I had a thought. Why not find a way to give myself more time — a longer life? Perhaps even eternal life."

He looks directly at Sydney, then Vaughn. "A preposterous idea, you think. But what is life without challenges? And it is not quite as preposterous as you might think. Our lives — how we are born, how we grow, how we age, and how we die — these are all governed by science. Thus science should be able to alter them, I thought, and maybe even halt them. You see this today, even — people now live longer than they did in that time. They will live even longer in the future, I have no doubt."

The old man sips at his water. He holds the cup almost daintily, the thin handle pressed between his thumb and index finger.

"The process was not easy. It took me years — the formula is complicated, although the basis of it lies in what today's medicine calls free radicals. But I did in fact find it. That is why I am here in front of you today."

"So you're going to live forever?" Vaughn asks.

"No. I could live forever, or at least I think so. It is possible that I have only drastically slowed my own aging, and in a few millennia I will succumb to old age. But all I was able to do was halt aging. I am not a vampire, or some cartoon character. What's that one you Americans are so fond of? The wile coyote? I am not that. If I were to step outside and be hit by a bus, I would die the same as anyone else."

"So this formula you used — you had to electrocute someone to make it work? You killed someone so you could live forever?" Sydney asks.

"No, dear, not at all." The old man pauses. "I am afraid the next part of the story does not reflect so well on me. You see, I have been alive for five hundred and fifty nine years. For centuries, I was occupied with my work. I filled time with inventions, with theories — it was a glorious time for me. I should have known that it would end, eventually. Well, it didn't actually end, but the ideas slowed. I suppose there was only so much in me.

"At first, I found ways to deal with the free time. I read, traveled — took part in the things I had not had time for previously. But soon, I grew bored. In the 1950s, after the storm had passed here in Europe, I noticed that an American intelligence agency — your National Security Agency — had started to take an interest in my work."

The old man reaches for the Pellegrino, refills his cup, the thin trickle of water loud, obnoxious.

"You have to understand, although I survived my so-called execution, my work — journals, inventions — was lost. Some of it was destroyed, some my followers managed to salvage. But by that time there were items scattered about the globe. You know this. I pursued these things — at auctions, markets, private sales, hoping to find ideas I had forgotten. Some inspiration, perhaps.

"I built up a small network of scouts to seek them out and buy them for me. It was they who made me aware of sudden aggressive pursuit of my work by another party, which I learned was the NSA. A segment called the DSR, in particular. It was a boost for the ego, you must understand, to see anyone interested in me after all of those years. My followers and their families had long since died out, or lost interest.

"So I became a spy. Not the sort you two are, or were, in your case, Sydney, all creeping about with guns and such. No, I simply eavesdropped, and interpreted. It was more difficult, back then, before the age of the Internet and all. But I had money — it is easy to amass a small fortune over such a great amount of time. So I added to my network, finding men willing to listen in, and pass along communications. Radio interception and other such things.

"I set out to crack your NSA's encryption — finally a challenge again! And I did, although it took me the better part of two years. I possess a code that many, many agencies would have killed for. It was amusing, for a time, to read about their interpretations of my work — wrong, in so many cases — and to read about the fervor with which they pursued it.

"An idea began to take hold, and I wish I could say it was for greater purpose than entertainment of a bored old man, but alas it was not. I would lead them on a global scavenger hunt, if you will, to see what would happen. So I produced new documents, new inventions, and had them hid in locations around the world. And then I sat back to see what would happen — "

"So all of these things we've been searching for, they're all a hoax?" Vaughn interrupts.

How many people have died? How many times have they risked their own lives, for what this man says is fake, false, for his own entertainment?

"Not all of them. Only some of them. Others are real, from the documents and items I had lost hundreds of years ago."

"But we tested all of the documents, to see if they were forgeries," Vaughn says. "We tested them for age, and they were all consistent with the 15th century."

"Mr. Vaughn, does it really surprise you that someone who is able to defy age should be able to make something appear older than it actually is?"

Vaughn shakes his head. _Your own father died because he was wrapped up in that quest. What if he hadn't been? Was it really the quest that corrupted him? Or was it just a catalyst?_

The old man takes another sip of water. "Things came about in much the way I thought they would. I saw men consumed by greed, working so hard to figure out the puzzle I had created for them. I suppose I should have seen how ugly it would turn. The very thing that had been my greatest achievement — the formula for eternal life — I made the treasure they were all looking for. I should have understood what that would do to men. What that did to your own parents and comrades."

"Oh, so I was almost killed over some document you made up for kicks? That's even better. This is unbelievable." Vaughn briefly thinks he's about to see Sydney attack a 559-year-old man. He shifts, slides his hand across her back, just above the gun.

The old man nods, holds up one hand as if to stop her. "I understand that is what you must think at this point in the story. But it is not the truth. I told you earlier that there were two things in my life. Thus far, we have focused on the first — my work. But the second is much more important to me — my child.

"For although I did not ever have contact with her mother again, I could not live without seeing my child, without knowing how she was. I watched her from afar for many years — I returned to Isabel's home many times, always just to watch, and I saw my little girl grow up, go to school, get married. She had a daughter of her own — my granddaughter.

"I watched her mother die, even went to her funeral, although her husband was still alive, and I felt it risky. I introduced myself to my daughter as an old friend of her mother's. It was the closest I ever came to her or my grandchild.

"But I continued to watch, over the years. So many generations lived and died, but I never lost track of them. They did not all just have one girl, of course. There was a long span where the generations fanned out and I feared I would not be able to follow them — brothers and sisters and their children and their children's children. But they all stayed in Rome, and there were times of war, and sickness, and my family, as it were, contracted.

"Eventually, they came back down to one central line. One daughter, one woman. But she was the one who did not stay in Rome. She fell in love, she did, with a stranger to town — a Russian businessman. And when he returned to Moscow, she went with him. It was around that time that I lost my inspiration. Perhaps she was the fire that burned within me."

The old man looks beyond them again, to the window, although it must be dark behind them, the streak gone from the table.

"But I did not lose track of her, even then. I went to Moscow, and I found her — she was married by then, and with child. I stayed in Moscow through a cold Russian winter, and the birth of her child. I watched them, from the window of my apartment, across the street from their home. I saw the midwife go in, and ten days later, they left the house with the baby for the first time."

"I considered staying there, but Rome was and is my home. I could not leave it permanently for a family I only knew from a distance. Still, I visited from time to time. I watched this new daughter bring out her own little girl. That child, Sydney, was your great-grandmother."

Oh my god.

He can hear Sydney's soft gasp beside him, feel her body tense beneath his hand, and although he can't see them, he knows her eyes: wide and shocked, disbelieving.

"I suppose you can figure out what happened after that," the old man continues. "Another daughter, who had a daughter. Two, actually, but one died when she was very young — tuberculosis. The one that lived, as you know, was recruited by the KGB. I lost track of her for many years after that — much of the time she spent in America. Her name came up, eventually, in the CIA memos I had been reading. Imagine my shock to find that my two worlds had intersected like that.

"I soon learned what she had been doing during that time. More importantly, I learned that she, too, had a daughter. I watched you grow up from afar, Sydney, from farther than any of the children up to that point. I learned of your achievements from newspaper clippings, the honor roll and your graduation, your choice of a college.

"And I learned of your recruitment from a CIA memo, written by your father, so distraught. I watched you, like your mother, become caught up in a mess of my own creation, working for a man who would sacrifice anything to solve my puzzle. I feared for you, Sydney, and I cursed myself for doing what I had. My petty plan had threatened the most important people in my life, and it became my only focus to right that wrong. But I could not think of a way to make it all end for you. Until recently. That document you speak of, the one that suggests your electrocution — I created it eight months ago."

"You were the sniper on the balcony," Vaughn says.

"Yes. Pretty good shot for an old man, huh?" He half-smiles. "I decided it was time to force a conclusion. There are still some loose ends to tie up — those two up there and the fake document they sought are part of that. But I wanted to set you free, Sydney. So that you could carry on."

He has. He's done what you and Jack and the rest of the CIA haven't been able to do. He's freed her. Sark and the double — they aren't going to be threats anymore. He's probably got a plan for Christophe, too.

But one thing doesn't make sense. "How does the prophecy fit into all of this? Was that part of your endgame as well?"

"Ah, that. No, that was an even greater coincidence. That was one of my original documents. You see, Sydney, you look more like Isabel than anyone I have seen for many generations. So beautiful. I am sure you agree." He looks at Vaughn. "That sketch is of Isabel. It was created in the time I thought she had spurned me. I fantasized becoming a powerful scientist, releasing that into the world and finally extracting my revenge for the pain she had caused me, having her detained, embarrassing her husband and her family. I do not think I could have actually done such a thing — I have always loved her, even in that time — but it helped me to cope.

"But then I learned what she had truly done, of her sacrifice, and I forgot about the document. It was one of the ones lost during my death, as it were. If I had remembered its existence, I would have destroyed it long before then. But it was not part of my more recent plans. I feared for you greatly, Sydney, when I read the FBI's communiques during that time. It was merely an unfortunate coincidence that it resurfaced when it did."

They lapse into silence, and Vaughn tries to think back through the story, to process everything the old man — should he call him Rambaldi? — has said.

"Oh!" The old man exclaims. "There is something I should show you. I do apologize. I had not planned to be telling this story today. I had not been planning to tell it ever, really. I will be right back."

Rambaldi walks to the stairs, pounding up the old wood.

When he is out of sight, Sydney turns to Vaughn. "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"It's either the truth, or the most elaborate lie I've ever heard. I don't know if we have any way to verify it, either way."

"Vaughn, what does it mean, if it's the truth?"

"I don't know, Syd. I don't know."

The old man creaking back down the stairs. He walks into the living room carrying an old, leather-bound book. Over to the coffee table, handing it eagerly to Sydney.

It is larger than her lap when she opens it gingerly, revealing a sketchbook, the pages yellowed parchment. _Isabel, 1442-1503_ scripted across the top, below it, sketched out in a familiar style, a near copy of the woman in the prophecy document. She resembles Sydney in this, as well.

"Our family," Rambaldi says. He stands there, hovering, watching Sydney as she begins flipping through the book, careful with the brittle old paper. Each page a new member of the family, name and dates of birth and death across the top, relationship to previous members detailed on the bottom. Each looks slightly different, but the lineage is clear.

"You loved them all," Sydney says, softly.

"Yes. Very much."

"But you never once tried to contact any of them. Even while all of this was going on, you never contacted me. Why?"

"I did not feel it was my place. And if I had, what would I say? How would I reveal my relationship to them? How would I explain that I would never age in the time they knew me? I would outlive them, each and every one of them. Would you believe me, Sydney? Do you even believe me now?"

"I don't know," she says. "This — " she points to the book, open to _ Vittorio, 1723-1745, _a young man with dark hair and bold eyes, long lashes — "this makes it easier."

She continues to flip through the book until she reaches _Irina, 1951 - , _and a striking portrait of her mother. She does not linger on _Sydney, 1975 - ,_ a rendering that has her smiling faintly, her eyes expressive, hair modern and straight, not at all like Isabel's. The rest of the book, roughly a third, is blank. Sydney eases it closed and hands it back to Rambaldi, balanced on her palms like an offering.

"Thank you, for letting me see that."

Does she believe him? Is that enough proof? Could there ever be enough proof? Maybe you just have to choose, to believe or not. Isn't that faith?

"No, Sydney. Thank you, for listening at least. I would not ever have contacted you, but it has been such an honor and a pleasure to meet you." The old man reaches into his sweater pocket, pulls out a gold pocketwatch by the chain. "It is late, now, and those two will not stay sedated forever, up there. I suppose we should think about doing something with them."

"What were you planning to do?" Vaughn asks.

"Ditch them somewhere and provide the carabiniere with an anonymous tip. I saw they were on Interpol's most wanted list."

"Yes. Top 10," Vaughn says. "How were you going to carry them?"

"I wasn't going to carry so much as drag," Rambaldi says. "So I suppose it is fortunate the two of you are here."

"Well, we can't just ditch them somewhere," Vaughn says, looking to Sydney. "At least I can't."

"Oh, yes. You are still with the CIA. Well, then I shall make it easier on myself and release them to you."

"I don't think we can do that. I mean, the CIA has been searching for your work for a very long time. They're going to want to talk to you. They're going to want — "

"Vaughn," Sydney interrupts, her hand on his arm. "They're going to test him, interrogate him — probably take him into custody — maybe permanently. Look what they did to me. We can't do that to him — he hasn't done anything but help us."

How could you do that to him, after what he's done for her? Regardless of whether he really is Milo Rambaldi, she's free now — closer to free, at least — because of him. But he's also the reason they wanted her in the first place.

"We've got an answer, now, to the Rambaldi mystery. How else are we going to provide the CIA with that information? Syd, Sloane may be dead, and we can take those two into custody, but as long as you're referenced in those documents, it's never really going to be over for you."

"That's a chance I'm willing to take," she says, her eyes strong. She considers this man family now — sometime, in the story, or the sketches, he has won her over.

You'd have to lie to the CIA. And you thought you were past that, the lying and the secrets.

"Vaughn, please."

She's right, you know. They would lock him up. For protecting her, you would have him put away.

For a moment, although he's committed, it is hard to open his mouth. "Okay. How are we going to work this?"

"Obviously you will need to move them to another location," Rambaldi says.

"Yeah, but we can't just take them to a safehouse and say we found them somewhere. They'll want details."

"There is a house a few miles from here that has been abandoned," Rambaldi says. "I can give you a document to plant, to make it appear that they would have interest there. From there, you can contact your CIA, Mr. Vaughn."

"We'd have to drive their car there," Sydney reaches down into the front pocket of her jeans, pulls out a set of car keys, a tiny rubber Hertz logo attached to the keychain. "Sark had these on him."

"Wait a minute," Vaughn says. "They're going to know we had help — they've obviously been tranqued, and tranquilizer guns aren't exactly the sort of thing you take on vacation."

"We can use the antidote to clear that up," Rambaldi says. "However, that means they will be awake for some time."

"That should be okay," Vaughn says. "They'll still be restrained and unarmed." _And unconscious again, if need be._

"Wait — they're going to remember where they were. They'll know that we moved them," Sydney says. "They'll know this address."

"My dear, they're not going to remember where they were for most of this week. That stuff packs quite a punch." Rambaldi winks at her. "Even with the antidote."

"How are we going to call the Agency?" Vaughn pulls his cell phone from his pocket, hits one of the buttons to light up the display. Still no service. "Neither of our cell phones are working."

"Oh — I nearly forgot about that!" Rambaldi straightens, brings one hand up to his mouth, the other locked around the spine of the sketchbook. "I do need to turn that off."

"You were blocking our reception?" Vaughn asks. "You didn't even know we were here."

"I was blocking everyone's reception. I didn't want them to be able to call back to Christophe, and I don't have a way to block individual phones."

"But we didn't have reception all the way back at the airport," Sydney says.

"Yes, it is still a bit too powerful. I am working on that."

"Aren't people going to notice when all of Rome loses cell reception for a day?" Vaughn asks.

"They do notice. They blame it on solar radiation or some other such nonsense. This is not the first time I've done it," Rambaldi says. "I'll turn it off when we go upstairs. You should have reception soon after that. Shall we?"

Rambaldi waits for them both to rise, then turns and starts toward the stairs. Although Vaughn feels tired, walking doesn't seem to be a problem, now. He uses the handrail as they go up, just in case.

Sark and the double are still unconscious when they reach the top of the stairs. Rambaldi walks to the far armoire, Vaughn and Sydney to the bodies on the floor. They stand over them, waiting, as Rambaldi opens the armoire. It is filled with stacks of blank parchment and leather-bound books, ink wells and calligraphy pens. And on the top shelf, a long row of royal blue apothecary bottles, hand-labeled.

Rambaldi picks up one of the bottles, pulls the glass top off, and inserts the needle of a large syringe, pulled from somewhere deep in the cabinet. He draws back the plunger until the syringe is full of clear liquid and places the bottle back on the shelf, the lid back on with a light clink.

"Take off their shoes, one each." Rambaldi presses the plunger slightly, two tiny drops slipping out of the needle. "We do not want the injection site to be easily found, correct?"

"I don't think they'll do that close of an exam, not on people we bring in alive." Vaughn kneels beside the double, anyway, begins to pull off one of her boots. He feels absurd, sitting here, holding the foot of an international criminal. "I guess it's better to be safe than sorry, though."

Vaughn peels off the double's sock as the old man sits beside him, lifts the woman's foot and runs his thumb over her arch.

"The toxicology should present much like methamphetamine, if they do run a drug test," Rambaldi says, neatly sliding the needle into a vein. He presses the plunger halfway, pulls the needle back out, then turns to Sydney, kneeling beside Sark, a black sock and an expensive leather shoe in her hand.

Vaughn struggles to get the double's sock and then boot back on as Rambaldi injects Sark. He manages, finally, and pulls the leg of her jeans back down. He turns to help Sydney, but she's nearly done, already, slipping Sark's shoe back on. Vaughn thinks, oddly, of Cinderella.

"You should have about half an hour before they wake up," Rambaldi says, standing.

Vaughn crawls over to Sark's head, eases his hands under the man's limp shoulders.

Sydney looks up at him. "You going to be okay to do this?"

"Yeah. I'm feeling a lot better, now."

"Let me go first, just in case. On three." She hooks her hands around Sark's ankles. "One. Two. Three."

He grasps Sark's arms and stands with her, finds the body isn't nearly as heavy as he'd expected. Sydney turns and starts toward the stairs in tiny, shuffling steps.

You may not feel that way after you get through three flights of stairs.

———

"That's good enough," Sydney says, a relief. His arms are starting to go prickly-numb, little needles of pain shooting through his shoulders, fingers starting to cramp, tight around the double's shoulders.

They are halfway across the hallway on the ground floor, not quite to the spot near the door where they'd dropped Sark, but she must be as tired as him, and probably more.He still goes to the gym to lift occasionally, but she hasn't done anything besides running in months.

They bend over and release the body. It falls with a loud thud on the tile, and he stands, shakes out his arms and hands with her, a little out of breath.

Rambaldi, who had wisely chosen to go down the stairs before them this time, stands near the entrance to the living room, holding two old brown extension cords and a pair of scissors. "I was thinking — those ties also are not the sort of thing you would bring on vacation, yes? These are something a little more like what you would find in the house."

They'd dropped Sark on his stomach, but the double lies on her back. Vaughn leans over and flips her as Rambaldi cuts the ties from Sark's hands and feet. He cuts both extension cords in half, as well, and hands two lengths to Sydney, two lengths to Vaughn, then moves on to the double.

They work quickly, the extension cords in tight knots around hands and feet. It's taken them at least 10 minutes to carry both bodies downstairs, and he'd much rather their captives wake up in their destination, instead of here, or in a car trunk.

Rambaldi stands first, followed by Sydney. He pulls a pair of brown leather gloves from a sweater pocket, hands them to her. "For driving the car. I thought they might look for fingerprints."

"That's good," she says. "We're going to have to put them in their car — there's no room in ours."

"I'll move it," Vaughn volunteers. Sydney may want some time alone with the old man, and this will be her only opportunity.

Sydney hands him the keys and gloves and he steps over Sark, opens the front door only far enough to slip through, pulls it closed behind him.

The street is dark, quiet. A few scattered golden windows, but no one walking the cobblestones, and the pizzeria appears closed. He had been worried about that.

He sprints the short distance to the convertible, hits the remote keyless and is rewarded with flashing parking lights. He slips on the gloves before he touches the door, finds they're thick but supple. Door open, he climbs inside, starts the car and backs crooked across the street, stopping when the trunk is just in front of the red door.

He pops the trunk before he gets out of the car, walks around to push it all the way open. It is empty, their bags in the backseat. Everything ready, he looks around the alley — still no one he can see, no faces in the lit windows. They must be careful, terribly careful, because the old man can't afford suspicious activity around his apartment, can't have the police showing up here and asking questions.

Back through the red door slowly, not sure what — if anything — they're talking about, but he wants to give fair warning.

" — supposed to graduate in December." Sydney looks over at him. "Are we ready?"

"Yeah."

The old man moves to the door and they walk over to Sark's body, first, sore arms, sore hands protesting when they pick him up. Rambaldi pulls the door open at the last possible second, and they rush the body to the trunk, trying to block as much of the view as possible with their own bodies. They push Sark all the way in, up against the seat backs, trying to arrange arms and legs, to preserve space for the double. Vaughn pushes the trunk halfway down before they go back inside, enough that the body isn't visible.

Back in, Rambaldi holding the door open again and then rushing to pull the trunk all the way open. The double barely fits, and he is not sure what they would have done if she did not. Vaughn slams the trunk closed and wonders briefly about the amount of oxygen in there, decides it doesn't matter; they won't be in there long.

They stand, awkward, in the alley for a moment — time for goodbyes, here, now? — before Rambaldi takes a step back toward the door. "I have a few more things for you," he says. They follow.

A roll of parchment and two large Maglites are propped against the wall in the hallway. Rambaldi hands them to Sydney, along with a folded piece of notebook paper from his sweater pocket. "You'll need the flashlights — there's no power. I suppose you can say that they had them. Plus your red herring, and directions."

Sydney unfolds the paper, stares at it for maybe a twenty seconds, and then hands it back. "I shouldn't have that on me," she says.

"Very good point." Rambaldi smiles and pushes both hands deep into his sweater pockets, seems small, trepid, the old man you pass on the street and don't look at twice. "Good luck, both of you."

"Goodbye." Sydney puts a hand on Rambaldi's left arm, leans over and kisses him on the cheek. "Would you mind if we came back to visit? I know it's not a good idea this time, but if we're in Rome again?"

The old man lights up like she's proposed marriage — in this moment his lonely, perpetual existence laid out on his face.

"I would like that very much, Sydney," he says. There are tears in his eyes.

Not sure of what he should do, but aware he needs to do something, and they really should be going, Vaughn holds out his hand, waits for Rambaldi to remove his from the pocket. Limp handshake and thank you.

They walk out the red door. He catches Sydney taking a long look back, wonders if the old man stands in the parlor window, watching her walk away. He does not turn to check.

This is their moment.

———

They drive away from the city, Sydney in the lead, Vaughn close behind. Under the GRA, the houses growing larger, farther apart.

Sydney turns down a side street, silent and dark, and then disappears down an unmarked driveway. He follows her. It is narrow, sided by thick trees, and bumpy — paved with concrete but laced with cracks that have filled in with high grass, weeds.

But there it is, up ahead where the trees clear slightly. Two stories tall and big, broad. Painted white at some point, but much of that has given way to gray wood. What was once a large porch in the front has largely collapsed, and most of the windows are broken, jagged edges pointing up and down like teeth. Vaughn looks at all of this, illuminated in his headlights, and thinks the place is much better suited to ghost stories — or maybe actual ghosts — than what they're about to do.

Sydney parks their car in the front, but he keeps going, to the back of the house, near what was once the walk to a back door. He considers leaving his headlights on, decides against it, pops the trunk and steps out of the car. Clicks on his Maglite and walks around to the back. The double is still unconscious, Sark hardly visible but not moving.

Sydney sprints towards him, her flashlight beam bouncing off of the trees that frame the overgrown grass lot. She holds the Rambaldi document in her other hand. They will not need to check for watchers this time; the only visible light comes from their flashlights, the moon and stars overhead, bright out here.

"We should check the house first," she says. "So we know what we're getting into."

He lowers the trunk lid and they start toward a back door, up old wood steps that look a bit rickety but are, fortunately, intact. Vaughn considers the gun tucked into his jeans, decides to pull it out as she opens the door. He doesn't expect any humans, but wild animals seem a real possibility.

Gun and flashlight side by side in front of him, into an old kitchen done in black and white tile, the appliances 50 or 60 years old, at least. There are still jars on the counter, plates in a cabinet where the door hangs half off of its hinges. The floor is covered with leaves and dirt.

He follows her down a short hallway, running his flashlight the length of a front room that must have been a living room, or parlor, perhaps. Parlor seems a better fit for the era this house must have thrived under, the expense that must have gone into it at some point, before it was forgotten.

It is large, the floor wooden and rotting, covered with lichen in a patch near one of the broken windows, still curtained. Some evidence of squatters or, more likely, teenagers — fast food wrappers, broken beer bottles, a used condom strewn around the edges, in and amongst the leaves. No furniture save for a broken chair and a pile of boards that may have been shelves once.

"We should plant this now," she says, waving the parchment.

"Our prints are on it, and if there's one thing they'll analyze to death, it's that. I don't think we should plant it — maybe we should just find a place that they would have got it from."

"Do you want to check out the rest of the house?"

"Not particularly." _This place is creepy as fuck, and possibly not very stable._

He walks toward a corner of the room near one of the windows, kicks aside some of the detritus, tucks the gun back in his jeans. There is a small gap between the floorboards where the edges of the wood have rotted away, and he slips his fingers inside, grabs the board and pulls. It takes a bit of muscle, but the board gives way, popping back in his hand.

There is a space about half a foot high between the floor they stand on and what must be the ceiling to the basement, musty, filled with cobwebs and a few lengths of old copper wire.

"Give me the document," he says.

She walks over, hands it to him, and he slides the parchment into the hole in the floorboards, then back out. It comes out with bits of dirt, dust, clinging to it, and he lays it down in the leaves along the wall. _That ought to be sufficient. The first thing they'll do is try to knock all the dust off and try to read it._

He stands back up and follows her back through the house. They leave one flashlight in the living room, the other in the kitchen, positioned as best they can to light the way. Outside in the moonlight, he opens the trunk with the keys and then pockets them, struggles to get a grip on the double's shoulders in the scant space he has to work with. Sydney tucks her hands around the woman's knees, shifts back to ankles when they finally pull her out of the trunk.

Up to the house, careful on the old stairs, through the kitchen and the hallway. They deposit the body on the floor in front of an old marble fireplace and stride back out of the house to get Sark. Both of them must be close to waking, and they don't want either of them to do so unattended.

Neither of them has hands free to close the trunk, once they've pulled Sark's body out; someone will need to make another trip.

They place Sark on the floor right next to the double, and he stands, pulls off the gloves, his hands sweating. "Let me go run these out to our car and shut that trunk."

"I'll get it," she says, her hand darting out. He gives her the gloves and watches her leave the way they came in. The front door is closer, but likely impassable, given the state of the porch.

He stands, facing the bodies, and wonders how close they are to that half hour.

It takes her a long time, it seems, to return. His back is to her, but he can hear the door clap shut in the kitchen, her footsteps through the hallway. He turns his head to watch her walk in, flashlight beam bobbing against the peeling wallpaper.

"I'll just hang on to the keys," she says. "Presumably we'd have searched them for weapons."

"Sounds good."

He waits for her to come join him, standing here, watching them, waiting. But she walks over to one of the windows, looks outside, then moves to the edge of the room, right beside the hallway. She sits on a fairly clean portion of the floor, her back to their captives.

He glances at the bodies, both still unmoving, then walks over to her spot on the floor. "You okay, Syd?"

"I can't — I don't want to look at her, anymore," she says, her voice quivering.

God, all this time, it's been a constant reminder. You should have tried to carry the double yourself. You should get her out of here, now. This isn't her job.

"Do you want to leave? You could take the car and go to the hotel. They'll want to talk to you later, but you don't have to stay here."

"No. I don't want to leave you alone with them, especially in this house. I'll just stay here unless you need help, if that's okay."

"Of course." He leans over, lays his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then crosses the room, over to the window. He picks up the end of the old, rotting curtains and tears off a strip, then rips it in half.

Then over to the bodies. He bends over the double first and pushes down her jaw, stuffing the strip of fabric into her mouth. He does the same to Sark._ No need for them to be talking. Especially her._

He returns to Sydney and sits, facing them, his back against hers, knees tucked. "I'll call the Agency as soon as they show signs of waking, if that's okay."

"Yes. Thank you."

He reaches back, knuckles scraping on the damp old wood, until he finds her hand, clasps it in his.

Silence, for awhile, the bodies still motionless. He leans his head back until it rests against hers.

"How did he even know this was here?" she asks.

"Maybe it was his house, at some point."

"Then it wouldn't be a good idea to send us here. They'll check the ownership of the house."

"He probably owned it under another name. My guess is whoever's on the title is listed as dead somewhere."

"How often do you think he does that — changes identities?"

"I don't know." He runs his thumb over her wrist, her palm.

"I can't imagine that kind of life."

"Me either."

Someone across the room stirring. Vaughn picks up the flashlight from his lap, points it at the bodies. Reaches behind his back for the gun as he stands.

The double is awake, her eyes shining dark and angry in the flashlight beam. She shakes her arms and legs, tests the binding, but the cords hold.

Sark moving now, too. Vaughn walks the short distance to them. The double wants to speak, but can't, grunting into the makeshift gag. Gun or flashlight?

He chooses flashlight, holding the gun on her as he brings the Maglite handle down hard on her temple. A loud crack, and her head rolls to the side, unconscious again. He does the same to Sark, seconds after his eyes open.

Back to Sydney, sitting on the floor in front of her hips, his cell phone out, full service. He dials the emergency number for Station Rome, gets an answer on the first ring.

"Authorization code?" The voice sounds like a young man's, quick and snappy.

"P. Nine. Two. Four. Five. Six. One. Zero."

"Calling?"

"Michael Vaughn. Base Station Los Angeles."

"Purpose?"

"We've apprehended two Interpol top 10 fugitives. We need a little help collecting, here."

"What's the status of the fugitives?"

"Alive but unconscious."

"All right, Agent Vaughn. We're putting together a tactical team right now. We'll be mobile in five minutes, max. Where are you?"

"It's an abandoned house. What should be Via Paolo Mancini 26, but it's not marked."

"Give us 15, we should be there. Call if your threat level changes."

"We will."

The young man ends the call.

"They'll be here in 15 minutes," Vaughn says. "We should get our story straight. They'll want to debrief both of us."

"Yeah. Vaughn?"

"What?"

"Thank you, for doing this."

"You don't have to thank me, Syd. I don't like doing it, but I think you're right. It's what we need to do."

He leans back against her, and prepares to compose their lies.


	23. 3x5: Maybe peace

Chapter 3.5 — Maybe peace

Friday, June 20, 2003

"After that, we just waited for you all to arrive."

Vaughn shifts with a loud squeak. He is sitting on an old twin bed in a tiny bedroom, answering softball questions from a senior agent. The agent — Ford — sits at a tiny white desk designed for a child. He was one of the late arrivers in the team of eight who'd come to the abandoned house.

The first six had stormed in, a flood of night vision goggles and assault rifles, sprinting so hard on the old wood Vaughn was sure one of them would put their foot through the floor. None had. They'd carried both bodies out to a waiting van, eagerly pulled the document from Sydney's hands, and headed off to clear the rest of the house.

Only later had two more senior agents walked in, overcoats swaying over suits. Good work and would you please come with us, and they had. Together in the car on the way to this safehouse, in the middle of the city, but separated for debrief. Sydney in the master bedroom of a small apartment, him in the second bedroom — halfheartedly made up for a child. Teddy bear on the bed, crayons in an empty soup can on the desk, a set of wooden blocks on the floor.

He feels strangely unburdened. They'd taken all three guns from them, although they'd promised Vaughn would get his back before he left. He'd handed over the keys to both rental cars, as well, at the abandoned house, and left his flashlight on the small, round kitchen table here, next to Sydney's.

The lies roll easily — too easily, perhaps — from him. Aside from the move to the abandoned house, the tranquilizers, much of their story is the same. Discovery at the airport, tailing them in the car, fighting Sark and the double.

The main lie is the big fucking omission.

"I think that about covers it, Agent Vaughn." Ford looks up from the narrow notebook he's used to jot down Vaughn's responses. "We'll want a written statement from you, of course. Let me go get you a laptop."

Ford rises from the tiny wooden chair and slips out the bedroom door. He returns with a small Sony Vaio notebook that barely fits on the desktop. "You can just type it in Word and we'll take care of getting it entered, if that works. You have any questions?"

"Yes. Did Sydney leave yet?" He very nearly calls her Agent Bristow, thinks of her as that for the first time in a long while.

"I don't know." Ford opens the door and walks out again, with no indication he's going to check.

———

Vaughn keeps his written report short, far more succinct than he usually writes. He is tired, and if he supplies too many details, there may be discrepancies between his story and Sydney's.

The bedroom door clicks open, and for a moment he thinks it is her.

It is not, but he still smiles at the man who steps through the doorway. Don Rossi, the first person he's recognized from Station Rome. Third generation American, born and raised in New York, Rossi still looks as Italian as anyone in Rome, with a full head of dark hair, deep brown eyes.

Rossi closes the door before he speaks.

"Michael Vaughn, what the hell are you doing over here?" Rossi's accent suggests a childhood in the Bronx, sounds completely different than when Vaughn had worked with him. Back then he'd been trying to blend, speaking broken English any time English was required.

"Hey, Don, how are you? And I'm trying to take a vacation."

"Only you would go on vacation and notch two off Interpol's most wanted. Let me tell you how crazy it is to get a call at midnight saying Mike Vaughn's in town and sitting on a couple of fugitives when I haven't seen you in what, five years?"

"Something like that. What are you still doing over here? I thought you were transferring to Langley."

"Short-lived. Definitely short-lived. I hated it there. Virginia, Mike, is almost as cold as New York and the food sucks. I was looking for a better slot here as soon as I moved back. I lucked out — assistant station chief happened to open up."

Vaughn finds the accent jarring, although he'd always been aware that the voice he knew from Rossi was an act. "You're ASC? Wow, congratulations."

"Thanks. And I see you've made senior agent already, so it sounds like you're not doing so bad, yourself."

"Yeah. I got lucky." _Suppose you could call it luck._

Rossi eases his short frame onto the edge of the bed. It still squeaks. "So you're seriously here on vacation? And that was seriously your girlfriend?"

"Sydney? Is she okay? Can you keep an eye on her?"

"I've already been warned by both her father and an Agent Weiss out of L.A. to treat her right. We got her through debrief real quick, and one of the agents drove her to your hotel. She told me to give you these." Rossi reaches into his suit pocket, pulls out the keys to the rental car, hands them to Vaughn.

"Thanks."

"Not a problem," Rossi says. "So this Sydney, she's retired Agency? At her age?"

"Yeah. She got mixed up in a really bad situation, lost a couple of people she cared about. After that, she just wanted to get out."

Rossi nods. "I sat in on part of her debrief. She talked about the double. That's pretty fucked up shit, there, Mike."

"To say the least."

"You were lucky to have her here. I wouldn't want to try to take on those two solo."

"Yeah. I was really lucky. Syd's one of the best I've ever seen." Probably the best, but Rossi was definitely up there, and there's no reason to hurt his feelings.

"You think this little taste of the action will make her want to get back in?"

Would it?

"No. She wanted out bad, Don. And she's already got another job lined up. She's teaching two lit classes at UCLA next term."

"Yeah? Well, good for her, then. I can't fathom leaving, myself, but it sounds like her situation was pretty rough."

"Yes, it was." _Worlds different than yours or mine or anyone else's._

"Well, get your written report done and get back to her. It all seems pretty open and shut. Oddly coincidental, but pretty simple beyond that."

"Yeah. I couldn't believe it, when we saw them walking through that parking garage." At least this is the truth. Vaughn does not want to lie to this man, someone he considers a friend, albeit one he hasn't spoken to in years.

"Seriously crazy shit. How long are you in Rome?"

"Just under two weeks. We should grab dinner sometime, me and Syd and you. Or should it be a double date?"

"You know me, Mike. Only thing I do long-term is the Agency. I can find a date, though, if you want to do double date."

"I have no doubt. That's your call."

"I'll see what comes up," Rossi says. "Might be better to pass on that, though — easier to talk shop, you know? It'd definitely be good to catch up, get to know Sydney. I've got your contact info, so I'll give you a call. Assuming I can. We were working off of radios, today. Solar flares or some shit — no cell phones. Craziest thing."

"Yeah. We would have called you guys much earlier, otherwise."

"That's what Sydney said." Rossi stands. "Hey, I'm going to try to get this wrapped up so we can all go home and try to get some sleep. But I'll call you later, we'll catch up. Bye, Mike"

The laptop on screensaver as Vaughn turns around. "Good to see you, Don."

———

The hotel lobby smells of coffee and air freshener over industrial cleanser. The building is small, old and well-located, close to the historic center, just a short drive from the safehouse.

The lights are dimmer than they must be during the day, and there is only one attendant, a balding man reading a paperback Tom Clancy. The man looks up long before Vaughn reaches the counter, suitcases clicking across the tile behind him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Does he look that American? He rolls the suitcases to a halt, pulls them upright in front of the desk. "My girlfriend should have checked in earlier — I need to know the room number. Her name is Sydney Bristow."

"Ah, yes. Ms. Bristow checked in a few hours ago." The man reaches under the counter, pulls out a Post-It note and a small key on a brass chain. He glances down at the note. "I'll need to see some identification before I can give this to you."

At least there's some pretense of security here. Or else she asked him to do that. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his passport. "Here you go."

The man looks at the passport and then the Post-It. He hands the passport back to Vaughn, along with the key. "You are in room 203, second floor. Unfortunately, our bellmen are off duty. I can help you with the suitcases, if you'd like."

"I should be fine, thanks."

"Good night and enjoy your stay, then, Mr. Vaughn."

Vaughn wheels the suitcases to an elevator across the lobby, hits the up button. The doors ding open immediately, to a small brass-trimmed car, white marble tile on the floor. He presses the button for the second floor, exhaustion coming at him in waves, so close to the room, the bed.

The elevator lurches to a halt on two. The room is only two doors down a hallway that must have been lush in earlier years — starting to show wear, now, on the thin maroon carpet that covers the floor, the aging floral paper on the walls. A vase of fresh flowers next to the telephone table across from the elevator, the telephone an old brown rotary.

A thin strip of light visible beneath the white-painted door to their room. Vaughn slides his key in, tries to turn it quietly, in case she is asleep despite the light.

She is not. Sitting up on the bed, instead, two pillows propped behind her back, reading more Dickens when he pulls the suitcases through the door, closes and locks it behind him. Her hair is wet and she's wearing a hotel bathrobe, likely fresh from the bath.

"Hey," she says. There is a bundled washcloth in her hand, a bucket of ice on the bed beside her.

"Hey. I thought you'd be asleep by now."

"I wanted to wait for you." She presses the washcloth against a pink spot on her chin. Already splotched with purple, it will look nasty tomorrow, he thinks, suddenly more aware of his own sore jaw, ribs, stomach.

"You have enough to share?"

She slips a marker into her book and sets it down on the bed, picks up another washcloth. "Here."

He reaches down to pull off his shoes, crawls across the empty side of the bed to lay beside her, the ice bucket between them. Takes the washcloth from her and fills it with a few cubes, holds it up to the throbbing spot on his jaw.

The room is small, but nice, mostly filled by the bed and a white wooden dresser. There are more fresh flowers in a vase on the dresser, hotel stationary on a small writing desk by the window. The curtains — heavy red velvet — are drawn, but the view should be good.

"I forgot about this part," she says, holding out her bundle of ice and rattling it like a maraca. "I can't say I missed it."

"Me either." He shifts the washcloth; part of his jaw is beginning to go numb. "How are you doing, Syd? You've had a lot of bombshells dropped on you today."

Silence, for a long while, the only sound the clinking of ice cubes as she dumps what's left of hers back into the bucket, drapes her washcloth over the side.

"I don't know," she says, finally.

"How did your debrief go?"

"It was fine," she says. "I just — I didn't think I'd ever be doing another debrief. I thought one day you'd come home and tell me they were caught, or someone had killed them. I thought I'd be able to stay detached. But today, seeing them — seeing her — being involved, having revenge just dumped in my lap, I wasn't ready for that."

She lays her head back on the pillow, does not continue.

The ice bucket feels like a barrier between them. He drops the towel inside and places it on the floor beside the bed, moves closer to her, past the cold spot made by the ice.

"At least we got them, Syd. You're that much safer, now." _Even safer after we get Christophe. Or Rambaldi does. _He reaches for her hand, finds it is cold, damp.

"You know, for a long time, I didn't feel like I had any family. After my mom left, my father was so distant — he didn't know she was alive, for a long time, he told me. I didn't really know my grandparents — his parents lived on the East coast and my mom told us her parents died years ago. So my friends — Will, Francie, everyone — they became my family." She pauses. "But then things have been better with my father, lately, and my mom came back, and now all of this — this family that might go back for generations, all those sketches in that book — "

Her chin trembling, their hands warm now, together. "I don't know how to reconcile that with losing my best friend."

"I don't think you can, Syd."

She nods.

"But you are free, now, to move on and do what you want with your life, and you're doing that."

"Yeah." She releases his hand, turns on her side to face him, wet hair stark on the white pillow. "Vaughn, what I said about my family, my friends — you're a part of that now, too, a big part. And I feel like we're in a good place, right now, even though it's still early, but I don't want you to feel like, with what Rambaldi said — "

He's rarely heard her ramble like this. "About what?"

"About all those generations of my family, that I was free to carry on. He insinuated — having a child, children, I guess. Carrying on his family. I know that my life's changed now, and that it's more of a possibility, but we've just started dating, and we haven't even started to talk about — "

"Syd, what he said didn't bother me at all."

"Oh." She seems relieved, pleased, a cautious smile on her face.

"But I think we do what we want to do, now. Not what the CIA wants you to do, or what Rambaldi's predicted."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean let's not worry about it right now." Rolling onto his side, face close to hers, reaching out, running his hand down the length of her arm. "Let's just live our lives. Let's just enjoy our vacation."

She closes the short distance between them, kisses him softly. "Let's just get some sleep," she whispers.

"That, too." He smiles, backs away, rises from the bed. "I'm going to go get ready."

He opens the smaller of his suitcases long enough to pull out a small travel case — toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, not much else. He moves around the small bathroom, new fixtures on old porcelain, brushing his teeth, washing his face. It is still steamy, smells of flowers from her bath.

Back out into the room, and she is asleep, her face peaceful, side rising and falling evenly. One last look at her before he turns off the overhead light, curled up tight in the bathrobe, hands clasped together beside her face, a bit like prayer.

Six months ago, he watched her like this. It was the morning after their first night, her face calm, still in the morning sun, and he knew it would not last. Not as long as she stayed in the CIA. Not with Sloane out there, the remnants of the Alliance.

She has spent much of her life looking for a few hours of peace, a moment where she has cause for a genuine smile before she returns to the darkness, the pain. He suspected this before they were together, knows it now.

He's wanted an end to this as badly as he's wanted anything. He longs for that time for her, when every hour is free, when she always has cause to smile.

And maybe this is the beginning.

Maybe it's over. Maybe it really is.

— End Part III —


	24. 4x1: Weary

**— Part IV —**

**Chapter 4.1 — Weary**

_Thursday, December 11, 2003_

Judy Barnett seems worn today, the typical bags beneath her eyes blacker, more prominent, her hair a duller blond, hanging limp on her shoulders. Vaughn wonders if she's taken on more difficult cases in the last few weeks.

She begins with a reminder that this is their final scheduled session — as if he'd needed that — and asks if he has any concerns he'd like to bring up. No, he says, surely they've covered everything by now; she's been very thorough.

"Good. Then we'll try to keep this short." She smiles, big and false and creased, rolls her desk chair around to the front of her desk, just a few feet in front of him. "I wanted to talk to you about how things with your mother stand."

He shifts on the couch, restless, the leather slippery beneath his suit, tries not to think that this could be it, that in fifteen or twenty minutes — thirty, maybe, but still some tangible, manageable period of time — he could be done with this. They have been down to one meeting a week for the last month, brief and surely unnecessary, but always still required, until last week she'd announced that she was almost ready to sign off.

"What do you want to know?"

"A few sessions ago, you said things with her have been more strained since she's been back in the country. Are you still uncomfortable talking with her about your father?"

"Yeah." She seems too close. He wonders if this is engineered, or merely a byproduct of office furniture that doesn't quite fit in this space. "I mean, it's really hard to hear her talk about him the way she sees him, the way I used to see him, and know the truth."

"And how have you been dealing with that?"

"I try to steer the conversation away from him, if I can. But it's hard to do. I can't be too obvious about it, or she'll want to know what's wrong. I never used to have a problem talking about him to her. If anything, I used to encourage it, especially when I was a kid — I loved it when she told me stories about him. So that's what she's used to."

"You're going to have to continue to work on that, Agent Vaughn. There is always going to be a certain level of hurt and pain associated with what you know as the truth about your father. If you can learn to compartmentalize those things when you're with her, it will help."

He nods because it will get him closer to out of here, not because he thinks compartmentalizing will actually work. He has tried it, has stood on his mother's doorstep and tried to erase the gym and the lonely funeral from his mind, if only for a few hours. It never works.

"With time, it will get easier, Michael."

_Then why hasn't it?_ "I hope so."

"Right now, I think time is really what you need. I'm going to sign off on your field rating and release you from the mandatory sessions, aside from a follow-up in three months. But if you feel like you need to come see me before that, don't hesitate."

"I won't," he says, already rising. He thanks her from the doorway, an afterthought.

———

He can see Marcus Dixon at the end of the hallway that leads back to the rotunda, just a silhouette, but clearly Dixon. He is the only person at the JTF using a cane right now.

Vaughn walks quickly to close the gap between them, realizes that Dixon must be on his way to Barnett's office, that he may be one of the cases weighing her down. Vaughn knows from Sydney that Dixon told his wife what he really did — unavoidable, really, after he'd been shot a second time — and that it had not gone well, although Sydney says things are improving.

"Agent Dixon, how are you doing?" He's always felt the urge to call him just "Dixon," as Sydney does, but it feels inappropriate, here.

"Better." Dixon gives him a deep nod and stops a few feet away, leaning heavily on the cane. "How is Sydney? I miss seeing her around here."

"She's good. Are you going to be able to make it Saturday?"

"Wouldn't miss it. I'm going to bring Diane and the kids."

"Great. She'll be happy to see all of you." Dixon shifts a little, and Vaughn wonders if he's kept him standing still for too long. "Hey, I'll let you go."

"Thanks. Tell Sydney I said hello."

"I will." Vaughn steps to the side and starts toward the end of the hallway, the distinct clicking of Dixon's cane growing fainter.

Into the rotunda, even busier than usual today. They are running eight operations — two major, six minor — and he knows them all, has reviewed every one.

Weiss leans back dangerously far in his chair as Vaughn approaches. "So are you a free man?"

"Yeah. It actually went better than I thought it would."

"Shocker." Weiss sits up, chair squealing, as Vaughn passes him, sits at his own desk and begins to log in. "Hey, Devlin stopped by while you were gone. They've got some more ops out of Langley they want you to review. That's how many this week? You keep it up and they're going to kick you up the ladder, Mike."

"Yeah, and then I'll be working even more hours. I'm sure Syd will be thrilled about that."

"What, you get the girl and now you want to actually spend time with her? What's wrong with you?"

"Very funny." His screen into view, five new messages in the half hour he's been away from his desk.

"How is Sydney these days?"

"She's good. A little quiet, lately."

"Bad quiet?"

"I don't know. She's coming up on the end of her job, and with graduation and everything, I think she's just got a lot on her mind."

"Yeah, she's been through a lot this year."

Vaughn nods, opens the first message. From Devlin, two files from Langley attached — the operations he's supposed to review, due in three hours. "You'll get to see her at the party."

"Yep. Now, Mike, about this party. You've got to let me know — Syd's grad school friends, any prospects there? Because the whole bachelor thing isn't working quite so well with you all shacked up, you know?"

It has been a long time since he's done anything with Weiss outside of work, he realizes. Weeks since their last beer-and-pizza Saturday, almost as long since they've been to a bar, and even then, he'd brought Sydney. _But what can you do? It's not like you have free time._ "If it's any consolation, I spend more time here at work with you than I do home with Syd. You're right, though. We should go to a game sometime, or something."

"Yeah, or a double date once you introduce me to Syd's hot lit doctor friends."

"I have no idea if there actually are any, but you've got first dibs as far as I'm concerned."

"That's what I like to hear."

———

He arrives home late, tired, but still far earlier than yesterday, when he'd stayed to work comms on an operation he'd designed and slipped into bed with her already asleep. Not the first time he'd done it, and he knows it will not be the last.

He lets himself in through the front door, recalls the day she'd asked him to move in. It hadn't been the serious, monumental question he'd been waiting for; an offhand comment one day, instead, that he really should move in here, that his time was too precious to be wasted making runs back to his apartment.

Vaughn catches her irritation with his job, his hours, in glimpses like this. An offhand comment, a disappointed sigh when he calls to tell her he'll be home late, maybe he can take her to dinner tomorrow instead. She never says anything directly, never complains, but he knows she must not be happy about it.

He isn't, either, although he knows he is doing well and drawing notice at Langley; Devlin said as much last week. Three years ago, he would have been thrilled. Challenging work, and upward mobility, what he'd wanted, to be a star at the Agency like his father. _But the whole time he was a star, he was really a traitor. And the hours are killing you, hurting what you have with her._

But it will slow down, or at least it should. One of his primary cases is the hunt for Alain Christophe, to put an end to the network he's been trying to build. Important, and it will be a big win for the Agency and for him, to catch one of the men who might still be after Sydney. _And it should give you more free time._

Vaughn pounds through the security keycode, pulls off his jacket and holster, hanging both on the coatrack by the door, out of habit, now.

"Syd, you here?"

"I'm in the kitchen. Go sit down and relax. I'll be out in a minute."

He slides his gun from the holster, takes it with him to the couch, placing it on the end table as he sits, sinking into the cushion, letting the exhaustion overtake him.

He hears her approach, feels her presence behind him, learning over the back of the couch to hand him a glass of wine. He tilts his head up and sideways for a brief, lopsided kiss before she pulls away, setting her own wine glass on the end table beside his gun.

"Are you hungry?"

"No. Weiss ordered a pizza."

"Oh." She lays her hands on his shoulders, starts to press her fingers in slow, deep circles over his shirt. "You're so tense."

He leans forward a bit, to give her better access, closes his eyes, the sensation unbelievably good. "They've got me working on a lot of different operations now, and I just feel like there's a lot of pressure on me. If I screw any one of them up, if I miss anything, it's somebody's life on the line."

Her thumbs firm on either side of his spine. "Is that the way you used to approach my cases?"

"Especially your cases, Syd." He thinks of those days, up all night, wondering if there was something he'd missed, something that might have helped her, something that might get her killed, the responsibility for her life nearly too much, the relief overwhelming every time he learned she was safe.

He takes a sip of wine. _At least those days are over, now._ "How was your day?"

"Frustrating. I had to go in and proctor my exam in the morning, and then I came back and graded papers for most of the afternoon."

"And that was frustrating?"

"Vaughn, some of these papers — they're awful. I mean, we spent two weeks on _Hamlet_ and it's like some of these kids haven't even read it."

"They probably haven't."

"Great." Her hands freeze on his back briefly, then start again. "I'm just — I'm tired of teaching these lessons when half of the kids aren't even paying attention, correcting the same mistakes over and over again on their papers. I thought I was going to make a difference, you know, introduce them to literature. But it seems like most of them don't care."

"You probably have made a difference for some of them, Syd. I bet there are kids in that class who genuinely enjoyed it, who learned to love _Hamlet_, or whatever, because of you. But you're not going to get through to all of them."

"I guess so," she says. "I just feel like maybe if my lessons were better, maybe if I did a better job getting them fired up about literature, I could reach more of them."

"Then do that. But you're never going to get a hundred percent. That doesn't make what you did for the others less special."

This is Sydney, now, alternately enthused and worried over her classes, much of her day spent at home, writing papers, grading papers, studying, preparing lessons. Sydney who wears jeans and reading glasses around the house most days, the suit from her classes long gone by the time he gets home.

He hasn't forgotten Sydney from that first day in Rome, Sydney from before, with the costumes and the confidence and the moves, but she seems very far away. Gone, permanently, and sometimes he finds he misses her. But she's doing what she wanted to do, no longer out there risking her life, and these things are far more important.

"Are you all set for the party?" He feels a little guilty, with this question. It had been his idea, to have a party after her graduation, to celebrate her truly moving on to the next phase in her life. But she has been left with most of the work, since he hasn't been around.

"I think so. I did a little cleaning today, too, and the food should all be ready. We just have to pick it up Saturday morning. Will's going to come over tomorrow and help me set up."

"How is he doing?"

"Much better, I think. He's been seeing Barnett, too. I don't know if you knew that."

"I did."

"He said she's been really helpful."

"She is. Annoying, but helpful."

She laughs. "Vaughn, you're not going to get called in, are you?"

"No. I told them Saturday was absolutely off-limits unless there was an extreme emergency."

She stops the massage, pulls her hands away. "Sorry. I'm getting tired."

"It's okay. Thank you." He turns to kiss her again.

"You're welcome." She picks up her wine glass, walks around the couch to sit beside him.

It would be good to return the favor. He places his hands on her shoulders, turns her torso a bit, presses his fingers into the soft muscle of her shoulders. She stretches, arching her back and leaning into his touch, a little cat-like.

"Your mother called," she says.

"Did she say she'd be able to make the party?"

"Yeah, she can. They only need her for a couple hours at the fundraiser, so she'll come by after. She also said she'd like to take us out to dinner tomorrow, if you can make it."

"I can try to cut out early." He is supposed to have a relatively light day, tomorrow, and if he doesn't, he can always go back to work, or take what he can home.

She turns to face him, pulling away from his hands.

"Vaughn, don't you think it's odd that she called me instead of you?"

"She was rsvping to your party. Your number was on the invitation."

"Vaughn, she called me because she's hardly heard from you in the last couple months. She wanted to know if something was wrong. I told her you've been busy with work."

"I have been busy with work. You know that — "

"It's not just work, is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Vaughn, you've been avoiding her ever since you found out about your father."

She is right, he knows. But he doesn't know how to fix it. Barnett's solution — compartmentalizing it — hasn't worked and isn't going to. So instead he's been keeping his calls short, telling her he's tired, skipping out on dinner whenever he can.

"I haven't said anything because I felt like it was your decision. But I see what's happening, now, and I can't — I need to say this." Sydney reaches down, picks up his hand. "Vaughn, my dad didn't know the full extent of what my mother was doing for the KGB until after he thought she died. He thought she'd been sent to steal secrets from him, but he didn't know about all of the wetwork, the assassinations — she's my mother, but she's done some horrible things."

Her eyes are distant, pained with a reality he knows she tries to avoid. "After we thought she'd died, my father kept what she'd done from me. He let me keep believing that she'd been a good, loving mother and maybe — I think she was that, deep down. But she also betrayed this country, and our family.

"I know he was trying to protect me from the truth, but you know what kind of father he became — cold, distant, hiring nannies to do everything so he didn't have to be around me. I don't know if that's because of what he'd been through, or the secret he was keeping, or both. But whatever the cause, I lost both my parents when we lost her."

She pauses. "I'd rather have known the truth about my mother and kept my dad. Your father is dead, Vaughn. He's been dead to her for a long time. Don't ruin your relationship with your mother trying to uphold his reputation. Don't take her son away, too."

He is stunned by her plea, barely registers her hand tightening around his. _You never really thought about it that way. But she's right. Why should you protect him, of all people?_

"I don't know how to tell her, Syd."

"There's no easy way, or right way to do it. But I think you should. If not tomorrow, then soon."

"I think — I think I should try tomorrow. If it's okay with you."

"Of course. Do you want to tell her while I'm there, though?"

"Yes. I'd rather have the support, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all."

"Thank you." He leans back against the couch, slips an arm across her back, pulling her closer. She rests her head on his shoulder and they sit in silence for a long while, the only movement their hands rising occasionally for another sip of wine.

He is tired, but not sleepy, his brain turning over and over what he'll have to do tomorrow. _How will you tell her? What will she say?_

The antique-look clock above the fireplace ticking off the seconds since he's finished his wine. Five minutes, ten, maybe.

Sydney shifts beside him, sits up straight. "Do you want some more wine?"

"Sure," he says, although he knows it may well put him to sleep. "Let me get it."

He takes her glass and rises, stiff, walks to the kitchen, the half-empty bottle of cabernet on the counter. He splits the rest of the bottle between them.

He passes the breakfast nook as he returns. There is a "Congratulations!" card lying on the counter. Gold lettering, heavy cream-colored stock.

"Who's the card from?"

"Read it."

He shifts the wine glass in his left hand, freeing two fingers to pick up the card. Carries glasses and card back to the couch and sits, handing her one glass. Opening the card, long lines of graceful, looping script:

_Sydney,_

_I did not choose my cover — it was selected for me. But I grew to love literature. I am glad to see we share that love, and I am happy to see you leave the life that has caused you so much pain. I am so proud of you._

_Love,_

_Mom_

This was another part of her day, a big part, one that probably left her in tears.

"Wow," he says.

"Yeah." She smiles, soft. "I guess I should have expected something from her, but I wasn't expecting that. She sent me a dress, too. I'll have to show it to you later."

He closes the card, places it on the coffee table. "She did love you, Syd — she does love you." He thinks briefly of his own father, pushes it away. Time with her is precious, now, and he shouldn't ruin it thinking about him.

"Yeah." She takes another sip of wine and moves closer, resting her free hand on his stomach. "You know, it's nice to be able to spend a little time with you, for once."

"I'm sorry about all the late nights, Syd. I think it's going to clear up a little, soon."

"Vaughn, you don't ever have to apologize. What you do — it's important. I know that." Her fingers trace a serpentine path up to his chest, back down again. "I do miss you, though."

His body growing warm, aroused, and it hits him, suddenly and clearly.

The wine, the massage. How long has it been?

Saturday night. Almost a week. He hadn't needed to go in to work at all, and she'd set aside her stack of papers. They'd gone shopping in the afternoon, out to the observatory in the evening to watch the winter sky, then back here to make love until late in the night, sleep in on Sunday. It reminded him of their time in Rome, the lack of responsibilities, the long, sweet time together.

But not since. He reaches over to set his wine glass on the end table, pulls hers from her hand and does the same.

He drops his head to hers, touches her cheek, her chin. Kisses her, long and hard.

Thinks this is working, in spite of everything.


	25. 4x2: Directions

**Chapter 4.2 — Directions**

_Friday, December 12, 2003_

"You're working like a madman today. Any particular reason?"

Weiss halts a few feet away from Vaughn's desk. A few months ago, he might have leaned over the monitor, a little friendlier distance. But Vaughn has been working on operations he's not cleared for, lately, and Weiss respects this.

"I need to get out of here on time. Dinner with Syd and my mom."

He's gone a little while without worrying about what he'll have to do tonight. But this brings it all back, loosens the control he's held over his nervous energy, pouring it into his operations, barely stopping for coffee, to use the restroom.

_You're getting close. And it has to be tonight. You can't wait any longer._

"Your mom and Syd are getting along well, then?"

"Yeah. Really well." _It's me and my mom that are having the problems._ He considers telling Weiss about what he plans to do tonight, decides against it. Maybe he will, but not here. Later, outside of the rotunda.

"That's good," Weiss says. "Although not really surprising."

"Yeah. Smart, pretty woman with good manners — that's more than enough to win my mom over."

Vaughn attaches his digital signature to his final report and hits send. 4:51, time to spare. He has been lucky — Devlin only assigned him one new operation today, a minor one. He locks down his desktop and stands.

"You out of here? Seriously?"

"Yeah. See you tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Have a good night, Mike."

_Not likely._ "You too."

———

He opens his front door to find Will Tippin arranging a cluster of balloons — UCLA blue and gold — in the corner of the living room. No sign of Sydney.

Will turns around at the sound of the door closing. "Hey, Mike. Syd went to change."

"Hi, Will." Vaughn walks into the living room. They've filled it with balloons and streamers, and a "Congratulations!" banner stretches across the back wall. There is a large metal tub below the sign, waiting to be filled with beer and ice, and empty serving bowls line the breakfast counter. "Looks nice."

"Eh." Will shakes his head. "Fran was the real party planner. You should have seen her. Fifty pumpkins and a truckful of grass for a Halloween party. We're just trying to do the best we can, here."

Will's eyes grow sad, distant. Much the same look he saw in Sydney, when he'd suggested the party, and now he knows why. She had smiled quickly, moved past it, and Will does the same, his attempt weak.

"How are you doing, Will?"

"Better, I think. I feel like I'm finally starting to get settled back in at work."

"That's good." Will has been back less than a month, but already Vaughn has seen a few of his briefs. All good, refreshingly clear of the bureaucratize he's come to expect from many the other analysts, particularly the junior ones, carefully seeking to climb the ladder.

"Yeah, it is. I needed to do something productive. I quit smoking, too." Will pushes up the sleeve of his t-shirt, reveals two small white patches. "One totally isn't enough. Don't tell Syd."

They laugh, together.

"Don't tell me what?"

Sydney, clipping down the hallway in high heels, and for long time, he can't speak, can't breathe. This must be the dress her mother sent — long, filmy black, just past her knees, intricate beading swirling across the bodice, narrow straps crossing her shoulders. Her hair is pulled into a loose twist behind her head, and she's wearing more makeup than he's seen on her in a long time, her lips red, eyes smoky.

He swallows, thinks wow but does not say it, not with Will here. He will not kiss her, either, not until Will leaves. They have been very careful about that, both afraid to remind Will of his loss, although they've never discussed it.

"Nothing," Will says, tossing the bag of balloons in his hand on the nearest table. "I should get going. I'll come over early tomorrow to help with the food."

"Thank you so much, Will," Sydney says.

"Not a problem." Will crosses the living room, lets himself out.

Free, now, Vaughn crosses the living room, lays his hands on her hips. He kisses her cheek to avoid the lipstick. "You look amazing, Syd."

She looks down. "This is the dress my mom sent. You don't think it's too much, do you? I wanted to wear it."

"I'm sure it's fine, Syd. Odds are my mom bought something nice in Paris and she's been itching to wear it, too."

Two loud knocks on the door, and then it opens. Vaughn steps back, turns to see Will in the doorway, a large box in his hands. "FedEx guy just showed up. I signed for it."

"Thanks, Will." Vaughn walks to the door, takes the package.

"I'm really out of here now, guys. Good night." Will steps back, pulls the door closed.

"Were you expecting a package, Syd?" The box is heavy, taller than it is wide. He takes it into the living room and sets it on the couch, one of the last surfaces not covered with serving dishes or balloons.

"No. What do you think it is?"

_Could it be a bomb? No, that wouldn't make any sense. They would want her alive. But it could be something else — dispenser for knockout gas, maybe. _

He turns the box to read the shipping label on the side — if he doesn't recognize it, he'll need to call in a bomb squad. Even if they do recognize the sender, it still might not be a bad idea. Her mother is the only one they should be expecting surprise presents from, and she's already sent hers.

The label has been typed, the return address a post office box in Rome. The sender is Giovanni Moretti.

"Giovanni Moretti? Isn't that — "

"It was his alias, wasn't it?" Sydney says.

_So it's from Rambaldi. Or at least it seems to be. _

Vaughn slides a pen knife from the inner pocket of his suit, flips it open and cuts through the tape. Sydney reaches in to help him pull away the flaps, revealing the tops of four wine bottles, nestled in a thick bed of raffia. There is a card on the top, and Sydney picks it up, slips it from the envelope, opens it. The handwriting is familiar, the card speckled with tiny dots of ink, as if it's been written with feather and inkwell, and maybe it has:

_Sydney, my sincerest congratulations. May your new career be rewarding, fulfilling, and safe._

_-M_

"That was nice of him," Vaughn says. "Although you seem to be getting a lot of graduation presents from people the CIA would really like in custody."

She smiles, slides out the first bottle, a 20-year-old Brunello di Montalcino. "I guess 20 years is nothing when you've lived as long as him. Maybe we should have asked to see his wine cellar."

He laughs, slight, and helps her pull the other bottles from the box, all as impressive as the first. They carry them over to the wine rack, which has been running a little thin; there is still an open slot after they slide all four in.

"We should get going." Sydney, her fingers light on his arm.

"Yeah." Reality rushing back at him — past him, to the dinner and what he'll have to say — so fast it seems there should be Doppler effect, like a train, or an ambulance siren.

"Let me get my wrap."

She walks in long, loud strides to the bedroom, returns with a thick velvet wrap around her shoulders and a small black beaded purse in her hand.

He joins her at the door, arms the security system. His hand light on her hip as they start toward his car, the dress soft, gauzy.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Dean Wenzel called me in to his office this morning."

"And?"

"He said Professor Rhoden is going to retire, so they're going to post for a replacement. He said they'll have to do an official search, but if I wanted to apply, I'd definitely be a front-runner."

"Syd, that's great!" They're nearly to the car, but he stops, pulls her into a kiss. He's been worried about what will happen if she can't get a job at UCLA or another college nearby, whether she'll need to move to follow her dream, if he will have to move with her. This would solve all of that. "You almost forgot that?"

She smiles, faint, reaches up to brush at the corners of his mouth with her fingers. He'd forgotten the lipstick.

"I was going to tell you when you got home, but then with the package and everything — besides, it's just an opening. They won't even post it until the term's over."

They begin walking again.

"But it still sounds like there's a very good chance for you to keep doing what you're doing." It would be so good for her to stay at UCLA. She seems comfortable there, and she's made friends with some of the professors, the students in her grad classes.

"Yeah, I think so."

She walks around to the passenger side, not quite as excited as she should be. _But maybe you just think it's a bigger deal than she does. Maybe she's nervous, afraid to get her hopes up and then not get the job._

———

Thinking about Sydney, her chance for a permanent job, provides a temporary distraction as he's driving, but soon he is pulling into a parking space outside the restaurant, his stomach low and tight.

The car into park, Sydney's hand covering his. "You okay?"

"Not really. I don't know how to do this, Syd."

"You don't have to know how to do it. You just have to get it over with," she says. "You know it's the right thing to do."

They exit the car together, doors slammed clap-clap. Sydney fusses with her wrap as they walk to the door, straightening it, pulling it farther up her shoulders. It is chilly tonight, and it's certainly not enough.

Into the restaurant, another oceanside suggestion by someone at the hospital. A rush of warmth and a thin crowd milling at the bar, behind the maître d', martinis and cosmopolitans. Judging by the women, Sydney is nowhere near overdressed.

"Good evening, sir." The maître d', tall and gray, a careful, calculated smile as they approach. "Did you have a reservation?"

"Yes. Vaughn?"

"Ah. Someone in your party is already here. Come with me, please."

The maître d' leads them past the bar, into a far less smoky but only slightly better-lit dining area. His mother in a booth on the land side of the restaurant, raised a foot or so off the ground so that the ocean is still easily visible.

She sits with her back to the entrance and it takes her awhile to notice their approach. When she does, she stands, exits the booth to embrace him. She wears a dressier black pantsuit and a green silk scarf around her neck.

She turns to hug Sydney. "Look at you, dear! That dress is lovely."

"Thank you. I love that scarf."

His mother reaches up to touch the scarf at the base of her throat. "A little splurge while I was in France."

Sydney looks over at him, the edges of her mouth turned up in a knowing smile, and they slide into the booth together.

"I took the liberty of ordering wine," his mother says. She lifts the bottle — California cabernet — from a stark white tablecloth and pours them each a generous glass. She sits back, raises her own glass, waiting for them to join her in a toast.

They do, glasses ringing, and this is not the way to begin this evening, he thinks, smiling and celebratory.

"So should I call you Dr. Bristow, now, so you can get used to it?"

"I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that." Sydney laughs, but it sounds forced, as nervous as he feels.

"What are you going to do, now that you've graduated?"

"Well, the professor I was filling in for is retiring, so they're going to open up his job. The dean told me I'd be a front-runner, since I've already taught some of his classes."

"Oh, that's wonderful. You've been so fortunate to have these teaching opportunities open up for you."

"Yes." Sydney reaches down for her menu, opens it, and they all follow. A good move, for him — a little more time to try to prepare. And they should wait until they've ordered, keep their server away from the table for a little while. They do not need anyone walking up to that conversation.

A waitress approaching, stopping in front of their table. Young, thin, wearing a white button-down shirt a few sizes too large. She welcomes Sydney and Vaughn, asks brusquely if they've had time to make their choices. Somewhere along the line, it seems, she's been told it's more important to be efficient than friendly.

They are so close. She will take their orders and walk away and he will have to do it.

He feels seized with sudden panic, like he is lying in the sand just beyond the broad windows, desperately clawing, trying to get away. He hears his mother and Sydney talking, doesn't register what they've ordered. And then they are all staring at him, the waitress frowning.

"Uh, prime rib. Medium rare." His voice high and faltering, the waitress nodding, his mother looking at him with narrow, questioning eyes. She knows something is wrong, now.

"I'll get those right in. Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you," Sydney says. She waits for the waitress to spin on her heel, start to walk away, then unsnaps her purse, pulls out a lipstick tube. She silently uncaps it, twists at the base until the full column of red is visible, places it on the table beside her wine glass.

One of Sydney's hands sliding back under the table, reaching for his, squeezing tight.

_It's time. You have to do this._

His pulse pounding at the back of his head, he takes a long, shaky breath and begins.

"Mom, there's something I need to tell you. Something I probably should have told you a long time ago, but I didn't know how. I didn't know if I should."

"Michael, what is it?" His mother's face instantly concerned, her expression one he remembers from the times he was sick or upset as a child.

"Did Dad ever mention the name Milo Rambaldi to you?"

"Milo — no." She shakes her head.

"He was a fifteenth-century scientist in Italy — some would call him a prophet. He produced inventions, designs so advanced that the Agency has been researching him for many years, trying to find more of his work. The reason I'm telling you this is because Dad and Jack Bristow and Arvin Sloane were trying to find something that Rambaldi had been working on. They thought it would give them eternal life."

"Eternal life? That sounds absurd."

"It's not as absurd as you might think. They had a lot of evidence that lead them to believe what they did," he says. "They were working outside of the Agency on this — they made a pact, to do everything they could to find Rambaldi's formula. Sydney's mother joined that pact eventually."

"Her mother?" Susan looks at Sydney. "She was a literature professor, wasn't she? Did they need her to translate things?"

"No, Mom. Sydney's mother wasn't just a literature professor. She was a spy, working for the KGB. She was sent here to steal secrets from Jack Bristow, and she didn't die when Sydney was six. She faked her death so they could bring her back to Russia."

"Oh my," she murmurs. "Did you know, Sydney, that your mother wasn't dead?"

"Not until recently."

"That's — shocking. You poor thing." His mother's face deeply sympathetic as she looks from Sydney to him. She picks up her wine glass. "But Michael, why are you telling me all of this?"

"I'm telling you because — because Dad didn't die when we thought he did, either." He pauses, wants to give her a little time to absorb the statement, but he cannot wait long. Barreling ahead: "Sydney's mother helped him fake his death because the Russians were planning to kill him."

His mother's eyes shocked and disbelieving, so wide she almost looks frightened. She sets her wine glass down with a heavy clunk, some of it sloshing over the edge, trickling down the side.

"That's impossible, Michael." The wine dripping on the tablecloth, maroon on white. "If he wasn't dead — if he was alive, somehow, he would have tried to contact me."

"I know it's hard to believe, Mom, but it's the truth. I saw him myself, this year."

"He came to you?" Her voice high and pained, shaky through the last word.

"No. I went to him." Sydney's hand tight around his. "These people, who thought they could use Rambaldi's works to achieve eternal life, they thought that they needed to kill Sydney in order to do this. I went to try to stop them. Dad was there. I talked to him."

"You saw him?" A soft, tenuous whisper, her mouth trembling. "I want to talk to him, too, Michael. How could you talk to him all that time ago, and not tell me, and not give me a chance to see him?"

"Because he's not the person we thought he was, Mom. I told you that he didn't die when we thought he did. He died then, on that day I talked to him. Sydney's mother — Irina, is her real name — she killed him because he was going to kill Sydney."

His mother sitting silent, speechless, for a long time. She looks down at the tablecloth, then back to him, and he is unprepared for the anger, the betrayal shining in her wet eyes.

"So you're here with the daughter of your father's killer? You've been with her all of this time? You brought her into my house?"

"Sydney had no control over the actions of her mother. Sydney was strapped to a chair at the time, about to be electrocuted." He keeps his voice low, aware of where they are, but forceful. "And the truth is, I would have done it myself if she hadn't. I told you, Dad wasn't the person we thought he was. After he disappeared, after we thought he died, he went to work as part of a terrorist organization, called the Alliance. He's killed innocent people. He would have killed Sydney — "

"Enough! That's enough!" She is crying hard, now, her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob, her shoulders shaking.

He has never seen her this upset before, and that thought stabs at him, deep in his chest, that empathic ache that comes when she hurts, when Sydney hurts. Magnified, this time, because he's caused it.

"Why tell me now?" his mother asks. "Why tell me at all?"

"Because it's the truth. And I can't keep pretending he was someone I know he wasn't."

His mother pulls her napkin from her lap, stands as she wipes furiously at her face, and throws it down on the table. "I'm sorry. I can't listen to any more of this."

"Mom — "

She does not look at him or Sydney as she steps sideways, out of the booth, does not look back as she rushes away from the table, scarf flapping behind her.

Long, heavy silence. Vaughn falls back against the booth, stunned.

Sydney moves first, releasing his hand, reaching out to twist the lipstick back down into the tube. She replaces the cap, slides it back into her purse.

"I'm so sorry, Vaughn. I didn't think it would go that way." She leans around to look at his face, trying to get a read on where this all has left him. _You must look like hell. You must look like you just broke your mother's heart._

"No, you were right. It was the right thing to do. It was just a big shock, to hear all of that. I guess I'd react the same way if it was reversed."

She runs a hand across his back, grasps his shoulder, pulling him closer. "Give her time, Vaughn."

"Yeah," he says, dully. He barely hears his own voice.

"Do you want to get out of here? I'm not really in the mood for a fancy dinner, anymore."

"Me either."

———

Back to the still, dark apartment. Sydney turns on lights — too many lights, the apartment flooded bright and cheery, all those balloons everywhere — as they walk to the bedroom.

They change into sweaters and jeans, Sydney's nice dress in a garment bag, tucked away at the back of her closet.

He should have told her not to wear it tonight, should have told her to save it for something less disastrous.

He walks out of the bedroom as she's still slipping into a red turtleneck, into the kitchen. He searches the refrigerator until he finds a plastic container filled with leftover spaghetti, pries the lid off, places it in the microwave, two minutes.

Sound of the bathroom sink running, and then Sydney walking down the hallway, into the kitchen, all of the makeup gone.

"Vaughn, I can get that. Sit down."

"It's almost done."

_Is she home yet? Is she still crying? _

"Let me get drinks, then. Do you want some tea? Or do you want a real drink?"

"Tea's fine."

_How long will it be before she's willing to talk to you again?_

The microwave beeps long and loud behind him, and he opens the door, the spaghetti steaming. He splits it between two plates and carries both to the table.

They sit together at the kitchen table. A few bites and he can't eat anymore. He looks up at Sydney, finds they've both been pushing spaghetti around their plates.

"I think I should call her, just to make sure she's all right."

Sydney nods, and he pulls his cell phone from his jeans pocket, speed dial number one. Her phone ringing, ringing, ringing, and then the answering machine: "Hi, this is Susan Vaughn. I'm not here, please — "

He thumbs the end button. "She's not answering, and she should be home by now. I'm worried about her, Syd. I've never seen her that upset before, not even when they came to tell her — that he was dead."

"I'm sure she's okay, Vaughn. She probably just needs some time."

"She's got to be devastated, Syd. She loved him so much. I think I'm going to go over there, and check on her."

"Are you sure you want to do that so soon?"

"If she won't talk to me, she won't talk to me. But I need to go, Syd."

"Okay," she says. "Be careful."

———

The Ford in the driveway, lights on in his mother's living room window, glowing yellow through the sheer curtains.

He allows himself a little relief at the signs she made it home. She could be in there crying her eyes out, but at least she is safe. He parks behind her car, walks to the front door, and remembers the day his grandfather and uncles did the same, with the big trunks and boxes. No furniture — they'd left all that behind, sold it for far less than it was worth. His mother had wanted to get away, get back, to pull a new life together as fast as she could.

Standing on the front step, filled again with hate. _He did that to her. He caused all of this._

He rings the bell.

A long pause. _Would she ignore you out here? Is she that angry?_

_Should you pick the lock? What if she's —_

A clunking sound as the deadbolt turns, the door easing open. His mother standing there, her face worn, devastated, eyes red. Still wearing the pantsuit, the scarf absent. She stares at him, silent.

"You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to," he says. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Come in," she whispers.

She steps aside and he walks in, to the living room, hears her close the door behind him. Everything still in its place on the shelves, his father's flag still front and center, particularly egregious, now. A pile of old photo albums, leather-bound, some of them well-worn, there on the coffee table. One is open.

Vaughn sits on the couch, looks at the photos. He is four, maybe five, in all of them. Standing with his mother in the kitchen, playing with the old dog on the living room floor, skating with his father on the pond down the road. All fading, the colors pastel, less vivid than they must have been, neatly bordered with faux-gold corners, glued to the pages.

"I wanted to look," his mother says, sitting beside him. "I wanted to know if I could see it, that awful person you described to me. I can't see anything."

She reaches down and closes the book. "I didn't want to believe you. I can't — it's still hard for me to believe it was all a lie. But I know you would never make anything like that up, Michael."

"Of course not," he says. "And Mom, I don't think it was all a lie. He loved us, deep down. Maybe not the way we thought he did, but he loved us. And I think maybe that chase, the quest, corrupted him to some degree. Maybe things would have been different if he hadn't been caught up in that. He did say he wanted it — wanted immortality — for all of us, for our family."

"I would have rather had him back, had him around for all those years."

"That's what I told him."

"That must have been so hard for you. It's hard for me, obviously. I loved your father, but you idolized him. I used to worry about that."

"It wasn't easy. That's why I wanted to keep it from you. I didn't want you to have to go through that, too."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Sydney — "

"Oh, I was so horribly rude to her. Please tell her I'm sorry."

"It's okay. She understands you were upset, but I'll tell her." He pauses. "I know I've been — distant, I guess, since I found out. It's still hard for me to talk about him, and it's even harder to talk about him as the person we used to know him as. Sydney told me I couldn't protect a dead man at the expense of my relationship with you."

"I'm not going to pretend that it doesn't hurt to learn about this, or that you've known for so long," she says. "But Michael, Sydney was right."

This helps, a bit, but he looks at her, hurt and weary on the couch, and realizes this is the first time he's never been sure of his mother's love for him. He needs it back, desperately.

"Take your time with this, Mom. I know it isn't easy."

She nods, and points to the pile of photo albums. "As I was going through these, I kept thinking of all the happy memories I had with your father, that those were all a lie, and they were tainted now."

"Mom, I'm so sorry — "

She presses her lips together, tight, holds up one hand. Leans over, selecting the second album from the top, sliding it out. She lays it open in her lap, flips through one, two, three, four pages.

"Then I ran across this." Her long, pale finger resting beside one of the pictures. It is her, sitting in the living room of their old house in France, holding a baby — him. She is smiling up, glowing, really, at whoever took the picture, presumably his father. He has seen the picture before, in his last pass through these albums, but it has been a long time.

"That was right after we brought you home from the hospital," she smiles. "One of my happiest memories. And nothing he did, or could ever do, can change that for me."

"Mom"

He reaches out to hug her, without thinking, without fear, and she accepts the embrace. For a moment, he is eight again and it is Michael and Mom against the world; it is that hotel room 26 years ago. And he is doing more, now, but he could never do enough.

They sit together, and they cry.

———

It is after midnight when he returns to the apartment. His mother had asked him to stay for tea, and they'd sat on the couch and paged through the newer photo albums, the ones from Los Angeles, talked until she seemed a bit calmer, more settled.

Sydney has left the hall light on, but the bedroom door is closed. It is late, and she's got a big day ahead tomorrow with graduation, the party; this will likely be another night he slips into bed beside her silent, sleeping form.

Into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, strips down to boxers and t-shirt, dropping jeans and sweater in the hamper beside the sink. He crosses the hallway, opens the door to the bedroom, surprised to find she is still up, reading from the light beside her bed, propped up by some of the larger pillows, the rest of them piled on the chair in the corner.

She looks up over her reading glasses, brings a hand to her face to slide them off. "How is she?"

"Better. We had a long talk." He crosses the room, lifts sheets and blankets and slips into bed beside her. "She's still hurting, but you were right, Syd. Telling her was the right thing to do." _We just keep learning that lesson over and over again, don't we?_ "She wanted me to tell you she was sorry, for what she said to you. I said you understood."

Sydney nods, reaches over to place glasses and book on the nightstand beside her. "And how are you doing?"

"I'm okay. I realized when I was over there — we've both spent a lot of years putting that man up on a pedestal. I mean, she's never dated — not seriously, anyway — since we thought he died. At least not that she's told me about. I think she would tell me."

"Would you want her to? Date, I mean."

"I'd like to see her find a love she can believe in again. It's going to take her a long time to get past this, though."

"Yes, Vaughn, but she will. And she's got her son back, now." She moves closer, her head still on her own pillow, but near enough to lay a hand on his arm.

"You didn't have to wait up for me."

She is silent. He expected a response, to that, and he examines her face. Something is still bothering her, something beyond what's happened with his mother.

"Vaughn," she says. "I know it's been a rough day, but I really need to talk to you about something before tomorrow."

"Syd, what is it?"

Her eyes down to the sheet between them, eyelashes nearly resting on her cheeks. "The professor's job — I don't think I'm going to apply."

"You don't — why, Syd?" _It was everything you wanted, wasn't it? It was your dream, your goal._

"I thought I was all set, with this new life. And I like teaching, but I miss my old job. I miss you."

_Is that what this is about? Has it been building up, all this time? All those late nights and you thought she was okay with it, she said she was okay with it, but she wasn't. How could she be?_

"Syd, I told you, it's bad now, but that should clear up. And then I'll be home more often. I promise."

"You and I both know that's not a promise you can keep, Vaughn. It's not a promise I want you to keep. What you do is important, Vaughn. What I do — it's not unimportant, but you said it yourself. There are a lot more professors in the world than field agents." She runs her hand along the seam of the sheet. "I just keep thinking, I joined what I thought was the CIA for a reason, and it wasn't revenge, or even justice. I lost track of that for a long time."

Her eyes on his, strong. "But I miss it. I miss the missions. I miss trying to make the world safer. I miss working with you. And I don't know that I could be happy as a professor, knowing what I could be doing instead. At least not at this point in my life."

"You want to come back to the Agency."

He is not as surprised as he should be. Maybe he's known this was coming, somewhere deep down, known it was only a matter of time.

"Yes."

"And you want to work in the field."

"Yes." The statement hanging between them, and this is it, he thinks, this is the turning point. "But I know what that did to us the last time, and I don't want that to happen again."

He is not ready to respond to that, not yet. "How long has this been bothering you, Syd?"

"I've thought about it for awhile, but it really hit me this morning when I was talking to the dean. I mean, here's everything I should have wanted, right in front of me, but I realized — it wasn't what I wanted at all," she says. "I know what Rambaldi wants, and I know what my mom wants, and I think I know what you want. But Vaughn, you said we have to live our own lives. And this is what I want."

"All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy, Syd. And safe."

"They don't exactly seem to go together."

"No. I guess not."

"Vaughn, I need to know if you're okay with this. That's important to me, that's — I would choose you over the Agency, every time. If there's one thing I learned after everything that happened, it's that. But I don't want to keep teaching."

He thinks of her mother, standing there on the pier. _She doesn't need your protection, Mr. Vaughn. She needs your support._

_No, she needs both. But you can do that. You can give her both. You can do this. _

_You have to. It's where she belongs._

"I'll be okay with it, as long as I get to work on your operations. What drove me insane was not knowing what you were doing, not being involved. I don't like leaving your life up to anyone else, Syd." He speaks firmly, wants to be convincing.

"Are you sure?"

And here, then, the question. Have they come full circle, come back around so this can drive them apart again? Or is this the beginning of a new path, something else entirely?

He does not know. But this seems right, like things are the way they're supposed to be. He sees them working late at the rotunda, driving home together. Sees himself designing her missions, pouring over the details. Working comms for those missions, maybe even partnering with her. Hears her voice, cool, professional, utterly competent. He's missed that voice. He's missed Agent Bristow.

And they will make it through, this time, because they have to.

This is not what he says.

"Yeah," instead, simply. "You work on happy. I'll worry about safe."

"Okay," she says. "I'm going to go in on Monday, then, and talk to Devlin."

And now things are moving too fast; Monday is so soon, too soon, and there are still things he needs to say.

"Wait — Syd, I know in Rome, we kind of skirted around the issue, of kids. That goes off the table if you're in the field. I won't tell some little girl her mom is dead."

He sees Sydney's body, much like his father's, lying on a steel table, bullet to the head. The little girl in the hallway of the old house. _Daddy, what's wrong?_

He forces them away.

"I know. I wouldn't want that, either. Maybe down the road, in a few years, maybe I could move over to Analysis, if that's what we want. But right now I feel like this is what I need to do." She lays her hand over his. "Vaughn, I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"I want you to promise me that if it starts to bother you, if it starts to become a problem, then you'll tell me, and we'll work through it. I want to come back, but I don't want this to rip us apart."

"I promise, Syd."

"Thank you." She leans over, kisses him gently, lays back against the pillows. "What if Devlin doesn't let us work together?"

"He will."

"How can you be so sure?"

He pauses, searches for the wording. Wonders if he should say what he's about to say.

"Devlin once told me that some of the Agency's best teams have been husband and wife."

She smiles, and it is everything.

**— End —**


End file.
